Domovoi

Jesse Miksic

When that time comes,
  Your hour of surrender,
    Greet them fondly, for
  They do love you—

The television left playing
  Sports on extra channels,

The night-light singing
      My daughter to sleep.

The console’s blinking monitor,
      The hum of the furnace—

    These are the restless sailors,
  The insomniac machines.

They lie awake imagining
  The touch of your fingertips
    Coming out the warm darkness.

    They trace the edges
      Of your tidal unconscious,
    The contours of a body
  That’s out of reach of reason,
Or discontent, or distraction.

Maybe they remember
  When I could lay awake, being
    The lungs of a house —
  They, its pulse, its twitching,
 Keeping quiet though they’re seeing
The inside from the inside —

    Anchors against
    Perfect oblivion,
    Buoys upon the deep.