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Jenne’ Andrews: A Theory of Insomnia


Perhaps I am not sleeping

Because I am meant

To become a poem.


Perhaps the stanzas of my hands,

how they have become dry and pale,

branching in a thicket of thin bones,

write themselves into time

like quicksilver

with their elemental serifs–,

those dark travelers hungry

for comprehension

toiling uphill in lunar sand.


My body lags

with the gravity of exhaustion.

Yet the mind

incandescent with wakefulness

petitions the lark

to leave her solitude.


How this brain

wants to shut against light

like an oyster

around an immanent pearl.


And how heavy my wrists

although I carry nothing.




The lines in a book of sonnets

left in the window for the rain

wash away.

I leave the bed

where I was,

a stain of shadows.


Day languishes toward twilight;

I am a small, foraging

bird in chaff, whittled down

to a minute chip

of obisidian,


mote floating in the fog of reverie,

where the filaments of phrase

shine through, unfurling.


Read me now.

I am distilled

to the pale layer of sweat

lining the pewter thimble

on an old woman’s

trembling hand.

Copyright 2015 Jenne Andrews

6 comments on “Jenne’ Andrews: A Theory of Insomnia

  1. jenneandrews
    December 19, 2015

    Thanks very much!


  2. jenneandrews
    December 18, 2015

    Many thanks! xxxj


  3. blossom666
    December 17, 2015

    That is brilliant 🙂

    Liked by 1 person

  4. davidever
    December 17, 2015

    Reblogged this on CHI's blog.

    Liked by 1 person

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This entry was posted on December 17, 2015 by in Poetry and tagged , .

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