Naked Moment

As promised, here is another of my recently (depending on your definition of “recently”) penned works. This piece was inspired by a segment of the “Fear of Sleep” episode of This American Life concerning – you guessed it – some of the terrors that come to us at night.

Naked Moment

There is nothing
on the screen
but a grainy image
of a Japanese man
in his metal-framed
bed.

He would later say
that in his bad dream,
he was fighting away
snakes of all shapes
and sizes, waiting for
none to latch onto him,
strangle him or poison him,
but flailing with all
his power.

But I could not see his
dream. All I could see
was him kick his metal bed frame
with a soft and rhythmic pang,
tear the tucked sheet out
from under the mattress,
pick up a pillow as a rock
and bash at the air
with murderous intent.

I felt as though
this bare moment should
not belong to anyone
but him, and that
I should not have seen
any of this,

and I clicked
off the TV.

But I’m sleeping alone these days…

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.