The Atlantic air keeps me awake. 
It happens often, eyes alert in my darkened

room, body tossing and turning like a wave in tune 
with a riptide, seizing me as I stir and struggle

to remember how to breathe in new waters.
Tomorrow, I will be exhausted. I consider how 

I hate sharing my bed, how I want everyone 
and anyone in my bed, moaning like a blue 

whale’s song seeping into summer, or a crying relief
from the stranger I let navigate my sheets.

Coo me back to sleep, don’t touch me.
Gargle my bones, blow them back out.

The roots of this fear tangle my lungs. Suddenly I 
am five again in a basement furnished with Mother’s fetishes

of wooden whales and deep teal vases,
watching Pinocchio with Opa

sobbing at the scene where the whale swallows 
the puppet, sharp teeth glinting. Nights in bed

where the Atlantic air suffocates, I can’t help 
but envision myself swimming and suddenly, a whale–

he doesn’t intend to, of course he doesn’t—
takes a big gulp of water, whisking me away

through his weird, husky teeth into the stomach
where I live the remainder of my days rotting away 

with krill. Devouring me like the stranger in bed
or the strangers before and the strangers ahead—

ravaged, trapped, held prisoner
in the belly of some intimate creature.