TV Poem About Waking Up

Written by Róise Curran

Illustration by Tara Lynch

I turn the TV off behind my eyes. 

For a flash, 

there is static and I sit in it, 

then, there is the brown and red and blue dots, 

I sit in them too, for a while,

in the surrealism of it all.

There is an translucency to eyelids,

I suppose, so we know when to wake.

If my room had no windows, no doors and no light to slink in,

would I wake?

But it does, and I do, I am waking, 

aware of my forehead,

of the valley of you, heavier, 

carved out of mattress beside me, 

of the crest I rest upon, 

I am glad of it. 

Sometimes, I would lay here,

to be ignorant,

to sleep unaware of my body and yours, 

the discomfort of a spine, stiff and curled. 

Sometimes, I would roll down the slope, 

my arm would bridge your back and we would breathe a little easier. 

Today, my hand fits your shoulder and I lean lips to your hair. 

I turn off the TV behind your eyes. 

I see the rise in your chest change 

as you see static, brown, red and blue, 

I smile in the surrealism of it all. 

I watch awareness return, 

your eyelids pull open as if two magnets were clasping them shut, 

I think about fridges,

I think about breakfast,

and you smile at the sight of me. 

I am glad of it.