There isn’t a pillow that survives a month under my head.
Punching. Fluffing. Turning over and over. There are hard needles sticking out.
I am a ball of of Covid.

My feet shift all night long. I don’t know where to put them.
Left side? Right? Criss-crossed? Open, wide, straight, dangling over the edge?
I have more awkward positions than a ballet student at the barre.

Sometimes there is music. Sometimes I choose talk. Other sounds comfort me.
I am not deaf.
A room filled with silence is not an option.

I want to know the secrets of sleep.