Within Reach

At the end of a tangled day
I want a house that lets me in
when I’m tired, cold,
and ready to rest.

I want someone to offer me
the sweetness of kinks straightened
and knots cut or unraveled.  

I want a meal that does not feed on me
for hours after I’ve eaten it.

I want a few fine things to comfort
my bruised hands.  I want to touch
the good work of similarly 
bruised hands.

I want to sleep,
dreamless, 
for a whole unbroken night.

I want, I want, I
want.

I’m done with denial. Denial
cut holes in my hands,
and these things have slipped through.
Soaked in fatigue though I am,
I want to rouse my deadfall body 
to reach for those things,

and I want them to be
within reach.