The Children Have Made Their Beds

Upstairs from the party,

sock feet quiet on hardwood,

wine spilled down the front of my shirt,

peering in doors in a strange house

looking for the bathroom, for cold water.

Precariously drunk and high, I choose

randomly a door, white and brass handled

like all the others and push.

Of course it is not the bathroom.

The nanny looks up, startled,

two children asleep on a large

bean-bag chair under the window.

I fumble an apology, looking around the room,

at the two beds on each wall,

perfectly, nautically ship-shape,

anchored to the wall, floating

on blue carpet.

Side by side, heads so close their yellow hair

looks tangled together,

the brothers sleep on an island.

Backing out, closing the door,

I slide down the wall and sit on the floor

and remember the bedroom I shared

with my brother,

sailing through the night on

opposite sides,

in the morning tucking sheets

under mattresses,

hauling in ropes cast out in the dark,

sunlight new in the sky

shining into my eyes, so I never

see him rise up and leave,

never see into the future where

I sit alone,

wine like blood on my chest.