Christopher Cheney Poems






And if during sleep you will think of me

Or if maybe the morning appears to be snow

And the snow glares through my curtains

And my cowlick sticks to a pillow

And the pillow is a couch cushion

And if during sleep you think of Mexican soap operas

And parking valets that smoke in the rain

And during sleep Chinese light boxes get wet and smoke

And my coughing fits don't wake you

And maybe I have a twin that always sleeps in my arms

Or a friend that fully dresses and goes to bed

And if during sleep you will think of me

Or a windy ferry ride from New York to New Jersey

New York being me and New Jersey also being me

And if you talk to me about your childhood

About your sister who was kidnapped

And found in a motel with her real mother

And how to this day she denies it ever happening

And how you don't think it really happened now

And if I move you from the couch to the bed

And if sleeping makes you forget where exactly you are

Like traveling in the back of your parents' van

And it's like you're from another time and country

Where everyone dresses for comfort and sleeps constantly

And I built this time machine and went there

And went around the house shutting all the windows






Christopher Cheney is from "The Town That Can't Be Licked," Massachusetts.

Currently he's the managing editor of Slope Editions.  His poems have

appeared or will appear in  Subtropics, Forklift, Ohio, Shampoo, and other places.



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