PILLOW

PILLOW

By Farah Lawal Harris, 2024

I desired to be pillow, soft and unassuming.

Nobody hates pillows.

If I could stuff my tummy with white feathers,

there’d be enough cushion, enough down

to ensure I don’t bust my ass.

It became impossible to pull pants above hips,

torture to sit through long meetings without segregating

belly from button.

I heard a soft womb balances a hard heart.

But here’s the thing about pillows.

They feel nothing.

I felt nothing, a numb sleepwalker.

Often, I’d see feathers,

hints of how light I could be

if I would just let go,

how I could float, suspend in the air,

be weightless like laughter.

I stopped letting sleepwalkers lay their burdens down on me

like topsheets.

I once desired to be a pillow;

now I am the peaceful sleep.