Hello All,

I read the bruise as an accident. What I'm trying to discern,
and I think this poem doesn't care to explain, is what caused
the person nestling the speaker to bruise the rib and not notice
the incident. 

Because of dark moon, rough edges, etc. I see it as...well, not
necessarily PTSD, but trauma brain in full gear during sleep.
The injury is flailing from that dream.

And because most of what you, Ren, write is non-fiction--or 
on the border thereof--believe me when I say that the metaphor
(and unspoken cause/tenor) of that dark moon is really where
I want to go, but perhaps that would require permission
from the dreamer. Who knows? I surely do not.

But the speaker maintains her prayer-mantra.

Namaste,
~Tim

I haven't forgotten this poem, just need to find some time to comment properly.  Off to work shortly.

I say I love you

silently

                                       you do not hear

I design it that way.

The hood light above the stove is soft
through the open bedroom door, red kitchen chairs
wait for breakfast in shadow of the glow.

I use your breathing as ballast,
your head nested in the hollow basin between my neck and shoulder, 
your arm with intimate pass across my belly,
your hand relaxed on my upper thigh –

you dream, talk aloud, then startle.

Instinctively my hand flutters to your shoulder,
hushes the length of arm to softening curl of fingers
but you do not wake.

In the morning you bruise my rib, it is an accident
but I will carry the pain with me for days.

Each time I attempt to breathe deep,
then hunch forward, draw short at the catch in my side,
I remember the way your head startled from its settle.

You do not know that I want to climb down
into the crater of your dark moon,
want to explore rough edges, the abraded slopes of memory
that make you afraid,
                     that make me afraid.

A hundred times a night I say I love you

silently,

               you do not hear; you do not hear

I design it that way.

Rene Schwiesow