The Snore

Every night,
as sure as the presence of moonlight
over the roof
or the whir of the heater
humming through the air ducts,
every night,
like clockwork,
I snore,
and every night
it drives her mad.

And every night,
when the bells of my breathing channels sound,
I'm pulled from my pool of sleep,
pushed and poked
back into the darkness of our room
by an elbow, a straight jabbing finger,
exasperated please of Stop snoring,
Enough, Stop it, You're snoring.

Then it's time
for my quick grumble of apologies
that precede a repositioning curl
on my side--
the non-snoring position,
so they say--
trying to put myself
into the pose of a baby
quiet in the womb of blanket and bed.

But every time,
trying to sneak off into a dream,
I fail to blend in
with the silence of the room,
the whir of the fan,
the sound of stillness and shadow.

Each time, rather than wade out
into the waters of sleep,
rather than dip my toes in first
to check and feel,
I cannonball into the still surface,
full of snore and grunt and gruff
like a discontented hog

truffle-searching in a queen-sized bed,
each time
like a freight train with an unsteady motor,
each time
off-rhythm and out of sync,
sometimes snoring so loudly
that I wake myself
and beat her to the punch
or jab
or poke.