Valleys of Cape Breton

by Conyer Clayton

You lied —
not sleeping,

slow movement
under a patterned quilt.

A dense divide in the air. I went
to the bathroom. You knocked. Concern

in your voice.
I started to talk and you balked, retreated

to bed. It doesn’t matter
who’s right,

I said. It does, you said.
The human condition, you said

as the mattress held you.
I’d hold you too but

my hips ache, and my arm
sleeps under your weight.