Insomnia
And then, there you are beside me in my sleep, by which I mean my non-sleep, the days when a pillow worked like an off switch being long gone, the days when I had an off switch being long gone, but with you there, fingertips breath against the hollow of my spine, I am a tuning dial turned, and the night, sleepless, is almost a song.
Photo by Quin Stevenson on Unsplash
The Prompt
I know I can’t be the only insomniac here—though, of course, in the middle of a long night in the middle of a long stretch of long nights, it’s easy to lapse into solipsism. I was an excellent sleeper until my third pregnancy, when something flipped in my body—a shift that intensified dramatically with long Covid. Thankfully, insomnia isn’t a constant reality for me now like it was in the early days of illness. It’s more like a particular kind of neighbor, never far distant, liable to show up without warning, liable to stay longer than I’d wish. But even a difficult neighbor might occasionally surprise you in pleasant ways. Not every wakeful night is a “bad” or wasted night.
If you would like a prompt to play with today, then I invite you to reflect on your own habits, patterns, stories, memories, and feelings regarding sleep (or a lack thereof). Tune into the sensory details that surround sleep for you—the touch of sheets against your skin, the heft of the mattress, the feeling of your muscles relaxing or failing to relax. The sound of the heater or air conditioner clicking on or off, the sound of your partner snoring, the sound of your partner telling you, for the love of God, to please stop storing.
What does your mind do when you lie down at night? What does your mind do in the first moment after waking? What does your mind do when the whole night is a marathon of wakefulness?
When’s the last time you fell asleep in a public place? When else has that happened? What stories, sensory perceptions, and other associations ride the coattails of these memories? Do you have a friend or family member who seems to fall asleep everywhere, all the time? Is there a story or metaphor pulling you there?
What does your sleep reveal about your waking life? If you created a timeline, mapping out your sleep across the years (duration, quality, what your dreams are like, etc), how would it compare to the same timeline of your waking life?
If you struggle with insomnia, consider shelving this prompt for now, setting it aside as something to return to in the middle of some difficult night. In my worst and longest and most painful stretch of insomnia, I decided one morning that I was going to write a book called something like “Bedtime Stories for Insomniacs” or maybe “Burning the Midnight Oil,” and the premise for the book would be that absolutely every word of it had to be written in the middle of some sleepless night for an audience of readers in the middle of their own sleepless nights. I was so excited about the idea and could hardly wait for nighttime to come around so I could, sleepless as always, rise from bed and get to work.
Apparently my excitement over starting the project demolished the sleep anxiety that had built in me over months of insomnia. Because guess what happened that night? I slept like a baby. Ditto for the night after. So if anyone needs a book idea, that particular one is up for grabs. Maybe the plan to write a poem about sleep/insomnia will have a similarly sedative effect for one of you. I hope so! In any case, please share your reflections, poems, and experiences in the comments thread. I always love reading them!
I woke up and learned that some folks I know lost their home yesterday -- on top of every other appalling new development on any given morning of 2025.
.
These days, sleep feels almost
negligent, like curtains pulled
against a housefire. I dream
of March-born trinkets
(yellow bells, finch song)
while embers wink and catch.
.
When I wake, the sun is glaring
from the ridge. It has already
swept the building; I am
the best-hidden dust bunny.
I shield my eyes, but only
for a minute—
then, blinking, start to absorb
the next total loss.
This is so lovely, Lisa. Your poem has a rhythmic beauty and as sweet cadence that goes deep. IT It is a wonderful testimony to the gift of sleep, the challenge when it is difficult to come by, and the sweey song of comfort. The second stanza is a p[oem all unti itself:
"but with you
there, fingertips breath
against the hollow of my spine,
I am a tuning dial
turned, and the night,
sleepless,
is almost a song."
I love this--"the night/sleepless,/is almost a song." your poem is the loveliest of songs!