Page 101 of Wayfarers

and Sylvie is lying with the crown

of her head tucked where my arm meets

my body; I don’t know how we ended up

this way but we did and far

be it from me to rob her

of precious sleep so I lie still

and look at her closed eyes,

moving fast under her eyelids

and her solemn eyebrows and the glow of the new

day as it filters through the summer gold

of her hair and listen to the determined grinding

of her molars and the murmurs she makes

in her dreaming and her dreamspeak:

Cal, she says and says something

I can’t understand. Again, Cal, and her mouth holds it

like a name, cradles it like something

she’s afraid to let fall

into the dirt.

Knox

“How long you been awake?” Sylvie’s voice startles me.

“About a half hour, I dunno. I take it I didn’t wake you when I got up?”

Sylvie yawns and rubs her eyes with the heels of her hands. A hank of her hair bulges adorably. She looks really good with bedhead. “Nah. How about that storm last night?”

“Wild. It went for a good while. I didn’t hear it stop.”

Sylvie sits next to me on the van’s bumper. “What’re you reading?”

“The Kite Runner. Rereading. It’s one of my favorite books. Ever read it?”

“Nope.”

I hand it to her. “Here. This is yours now.”

“I can get my own copy.”

“It’s a thank-you gift for all you’ve done for me.”

“You’re good company. That’s gift enough.”