Laurie Lamon

I’m Going to Bed When You Go to Bed
February 10, 2014 Lamon Laurie

I’m Going to Bed When You Go to Bed


Let someone else learn the borders of every country’s will,

the length of one impartial wall, the largest diaspora of children


who will die before the age of three. Let someone else

lay on her back and shoot museum animals strung midair, tongues


and eyes extinct, the patterned coats healed of bullet hole

and scent. Let her learn the names of deserts and ferns, the smallest


mammal, the moon’s lacus and valles of weather and season.

I’m learning the algorithm for raking leaves. I’m walking the dog,


looking up when she looks up, hearing the V of geese, watching

fluctuation of wing beat and wing. Let someone else write


poems for polar bears, orangutans and honey bees, whales

beached inside their roughed-up skins. Let someone else mourn


the last dusky seaside sparrow, Ammodramus Maritumus, a male,

the end of the line. I’m going to bed when you go to bed.

Laurie Lamon is professor of English at Whitworth College in Spokane, Washington. She is the recipient of a Pushcart Prize, and she was the recipient of a Witter Bynner Fellowship in 2007. Her collection, The Fork Without Hunger (CavanKerry), was published in 2005. Her second, Without Wings, was published  in the spring of 2009.