Apnea

A high pile of pillows in bed, tufted 
mattresses, double-lined quilts. Side 

sleepers, face-down sleepers, flat-on-
the-back sleepers chasing the elusive

dream of sleep. But we lose count: sheep 
show no signs of quitting their high 

jump marathons, and the moon keeps 
training its too bright spotlight 

through the window. Is it that we've 
grown too soft, too dependent on the idea 

of sinking as release? In one museum 
alcove, shelves of wooden and porcelain

takamakura, curved to cradle the neck and
head of the sleeper in such a way as to 

provide both a cooling effect and preserve
elaborate hairstyles. Perhaps they were on

to something, all those geishas and others
who lay on a mat and rested their heads

on these pillows, even while entertaining
the suitor that slid into the chamber at night,

having first slipped a poem of supplication
into the hands of a lady-in-waiting. Soft 

light from the moon filters through screens 
as though it did not have an iron core 

and a silicate mantle. When I purchase 
a sobakawa or pillow filled with buckwheat 

hulls, I'm thinking only of how tilting 
the chin upwards lifts the tongue away from 

the back of the throat, straightening the airway 
to better aid the flow of air into the lungs. 

Breathlessness can be involuntary; can 
also be the climax of heightened emotion.