I want to be tucked in, and read to.

My gut is bleeding again, and again I am disgusted by the weakness of my will.

I want to be held.

I want to hang on.

I want to be tucked in, and read to.

I want to be held, briefly.  A strong clench, a soft rub, and a letting go, something as close as can be to a shove.

I want to hang on, but I want to let go more, and who wants to be in the middle of a mess like that?
(That's why the holding must end in a push, away.)

I want to be tucked in by someone who knows how to do it, who won't wave the fabrics in the air, won't make a wave of any sort, with anything.  Someone who knows the length I will need at the top, to hide my face but not interfere with vision and the seeing of things.  Someone who knows to lay the weave down all straight and normal, no creases, until just above the knees because that's where and when we need to consult, try this, try that.  Under no circumstances should the quilt or coverlet or sheet land with any added weight.  It must be placed, lain, and rarely will my feet or lower leg be covered.  You need enormous patience and I am sorry.  You may have to identify left and right for me, but do that last.

I am in the mood for Yeats, which is the equivalent of red and flashing lights.

An early Easter Uprising, I want tragedy in brogue and examples of wasted greatness. I also think that I should be Pope.  You can call me El Papa.  I think we should all stop saying "pope" in favor of "El Papa," even if we are not Spanish speakers.  It's jolly sounding.  And though I am a girl, I want to be El Papa -- there's no need for a psych consult, it's a passing phase.  By the time they get the flue working in that slapped-together stovepipe -- I'll be over it and they can have any old el papa that they please.

This is what to read me after the arduous process of tucking me in under my one quilt, or the more complicated two, if I have a high fever.  It doesn't matter how I feel about the poem, the poet, the event, or whether "the high tomorrow will be whenever I get up" {waving::at::george} -- All that matters is right now, and this is what I want, "Easter, 1916."

I HAVE met them at close of day
Coming with vivid faces
From counter or desk among grey
Eighteenth-century houses.
I have passed with a nod of the head
Or polite meaningless words,
Or have lingered awhile and said
Polite meaningless words,
And thought before I had done
Of a mocking tale or a gibe
To please a companion
Around the fire at the club,
Being certain that they and I
But lived where motley is worn:
All changed, changed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.

That woman's days were spent
In ignorant good-will,
Her nights in argument
Until her voice grew shrill.
What voice more sweet than hers
When, young and beautiful,
She rode to harriers?
This man had kept a school
And rode our winged horse;
This other his helper and friend
Was coming into his force;
He might have won fame in the end,
So sensitive his nature seemed,
So daring and sweet his thought.
This other man I had dreamed
A drunken, vainglorious lout.
He had done most bitter wrong
To some who are near my heart,
Yet I number him in the song;
He, too, has resigned his part
In the casual comedy;
He, too, has been changed in his turn,
Transformed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.

Hearts with one purpose alone
Through summer and winter seem
Enchanted to a stone
To trouble the living stream.
The horse that comes from the road.
The rider, the birds that range
From cloud to tumbling cloud,
Minute by minute they change;
A shadow of cloud on the stream
Changes minute by minute;
A horse-hoof slides on the brim,
And a horse plashes within it;
The long-legged moor-hens dive,
And hens to moor-cocks call;
Minute by minute they live:
The stone's in the midst of all.

Too long a sacrifice
Can make a stone of the heart.
O when may it suffice?
That is Heaven's part, our part
To murmur name upon name,
As a mother names her child
When sleep at last has come
On limbs that had run wild.
What is it but nightfall?
No, no, not night but death;
Was it needless death after all?
For England may keep faith
For all that is done and said.
We know their dream; enough
To know they dreamed and are dead;
And what if excess of love
Bewildered them till they died?
I write it out in a verse -
MacDonagh and MacBride
And Connolly and Pearse
Now and in time to be,
Wherever green is worn,
Are changed, changed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born. 

-- William Butler Yeats (1865-1939)

When all of that is said and done, it will be time for a lullaby, and, right now, this is what it's gonna be -- something easy from Neil Young's album, "After the Gold Rush."  Unless you can get my monks to phone in Compline?  Could Brother William slip away, d'ya think, if he's not in trouble?  Can I have Fig Newtons for Christ's body, again?

Hey, hey

Cripple Creek ferry

Butting through

The overhanging trees

Make way

For the Cripple Creek ferry

The waters going down

It's a mighty tight squeeze.

All alone the captain stands

Hasn't heard

From his deck hands.

The gambler tips his hat

And walks towards the door.

It's the second half

Of the cruise.

And you know he hates to lose.

Hey, hey Cripple Creek ferry

Butting through

The overhanging trees

Make way

For the Cripple Creek ferry

The waters going down

It's a mighty tight squeeze.