In a recent episode of This American Life, host Ira Glass read a poem which – for some reason or another – I thought should be more widely known. Penned by American poet and short-story writer Raymond Carver, this piece perfectly embodies the vulnerability we all face during those hours in which we drift out of consciousness.
The Scratch by Raymond Carver
I woke up with a spot of blood
over my eye. A scratch
halfway across my forehead.
But I’m sleeping alone these days.
Why on earth would a man raise his hand
against himself, even in sleep?
It’s this and similar questions
I’m trying to answer this morning.
As I study my face in the window.
