Evening Prayer

As I lay me down to sleep,
unfold the covers in an amber 
circle of bedside light,
the wrinkled hand with ridged nails
that lifts the sheet hardly seems my own,
but my mother's, when she was
already old, straightening the sheets
around me, stroking my back
in the apple-green room that was mine.

Back turned from the light and
face half to pillow, you sleep
chest rising in small sighs
for something just out of reach--
like the plaintive mews we heard
in the children's room, when by
nightlight we watched the
dreams flicker on their faces,
as I watch yours now

and notice your hair more gray,
like my father's, when he was
already old. I consider this
and use my roughened hand
to stroke your back, write on it
with a ridge-nailed finger through
the cotton across your back,
what I want you to know
if I should die before I wake.