Angela Freeman

i hesitate to wake her,
[hand raised, hovering]
feeling new landforms, wide plains, river deltas –
sleep-maps pressed into her cheek.

soon she will dip her lashes
[like a paintbrush]
into all different kinds of tears –
some salty, some sweet.

but for now she is wrapped in clouds,
[some stratus, some cirrus]
wisps of hair tucked under her chin —
and grains of sand trapped in her tear ducts.