A Grind of Blackbirds, A Tribe of Insomniacs

poem

I had an insomniac friend
who'd email me at two, three,
four a.m. I'm an insomniac,

as well, so I'd email back.
"Hey," I once wrote. "We're ironic
vampires made weaker

by the moon." My friend wrote,
"I listen to my husband and kids
sleeping. I stand guard

at their doors. My insomnia
only makes sense
when I'm pretending

to be a night watchman." 
We usually wrote to each other
after two or more sleepless

nights. We wrote when
we were at our worst.
But that correspondence

ended a few years ago. I'm still
not a good sleeper
but I've become a better

sleeper. I don't know how
my friend's insomnia
is going. We no longer

speak. But I thought
of her this morning
when the birds woke me

with their warbles and trills.
I'd slept for six hours divided
by an hour of quiet panic—

a decent night for me.
Then, as I drank my first cup
of coffee, I wondered

if my former friend
was listening to the birds
greeting the dawn

in her city. I wondered
if she'd slept well
and was happy

to hear their music.
Or if she'd paced her house
all night long

and was convinced
that those goddamn morning
birds were singing

a death song. I thought
to send her this poem
but I won't. There's no need

to finish this story
because some friendships
turn out to be migratory.