My Disappearing

by Deborah Scott Studebaker

::

When I finally found my way back into sleep
it was as deep as a wishing well looks to a child
peering over the edge.

And when I say deep I mean moonshot-dark, deep
like a gash, like a doctor looking into your throat
with an old-fashioned light on his forehead.

Deep like the long, slow walk down the hallway
to the back stairs, like the play I didn’t really
understand, like the faint pulse of an old heartache.

When I finally felt—and when I say felt I mean left—
my bones, muscles, and fascia, I floated between
long contrails that I fashioned into letters.

By which I mean making an S-shape out of my
body, lost in the arms of space, disappearing
into the pillow, pillow so kind, so welcoming, so

::

Deborah Scott Studebaker is a poet and educator from Los Angeles. Her work appears in The Gravity of the Thing, And Other Poems, Anti-Heroin Chic, and others. Deb writes while walking with her Notes app, loves the surreal insights of AutoCorrect and believes that movement liberates language. Say hello on Bluesky @debstudebaker.bsky.social.

ID: a dark tunnel with moss.

Image: Bradley Pritchard Jones