Somnambulist’s Hymn

Andrew Koch

Last night,
during some moonlit hour
of our bedroom stillness,
I heard a startled flutter
in your voice
wing out,

a glossolalia, hard and coiling,
dart through the pale dark
and nestle down again
somewhere near the foot of the bed.

One feathery ordinance
of half-words
chased after another,
your spells conjured once
out of silence
and then never again–
forgotten curses
for all waking empires.

I fell asleep wondering
at your drowsy little renaissance,
thinking of Luther,
what oaths he never intended to swear
in the grip of lightning,
mud-deep in Teutonic night,
before he made God speak German
for the first time.

In the morning
you author
tiny miracles.
The small perfection
of a cherry tomato
we bought from the grocery store,
you tell me, is your beating heart.

Koch photo

Andrew Koch lives in Spokane, Washington where he is pursuing an MFA at Eastern Washington University and serving as managing editor for Stirring: A Literary Collection. He is the author of the chapbook Brick-Woman (Hermeneutic Chaos, 2016) and his work has appeared or is forthcoming in Gargoyle, The Hollins Critic, Rogue Agent, Menacing Hedge and others.