palimpsest

I collapse onto the bleached white  

hotel bedspread and let the day’s tension  

knot into the mattress 

It smells of tissues and cleaner  

and a great deal that amounts  

to nothing. My senses are exhausted  

into half-sleep. I have become  

a depression on the overstuffed comforter,  

an isthmus of fabric between my arm  

and the hardcover book lying next to me 

The idea of sitting up rolls around  

in my head for a moment 

Instead, I stretch out a hand  

to drag the book over 

My ankles cross  

I prop myself up on my elbows,  

flicking open the pages. 

I find myself, at nine years old 

pressed between the pages 

I can feel the cramped airline seat  

digging into my sides 

The dull plastic window  

throbs against my temple,  

sending a low hum through my skull 

I can almost see the clouds  

out of the corner of my eye  

as I read about the book’s hero  

soaring through the sky  

on dragon back. Warm 

in the plane’s belly, 

I curl tighter. 

On the bed, I release memory, 

roll sideways 

The book and I lie open  

on our spines. Pages rustle  

as it begins to draw itself shut 

I bring my knees to my chest 

Relaxation is a process  

of exaggerating tension 

and releasing. 

Traveling 

and returning home. 

I let myself go.