Andrew wakes up five minutes before the alarm
and gets up to disarm it. He rouses me
by parting the thick curtains, and I groan
and take over his side of the bed.
He starts the kettle and brushes his teeth
while I fall back asleep.
I wake again, this time to the hum of his electric razor
scraping stubble, aimed too high on his face.
My shoulders follow my hips follow my feet
out of bed in one rolling, fluid motion,
and then I am standing, whining, stomping
to the shower, housecoat clutched to my chest
with crossed, contrary arms.
Despite broken faucets and bad water pressure,
the hot water coaxes me to some wakefulness, and now
Andrew can lay his head in the lion’s mouth
and the lion won’t bite.