How to Take an Afternoon Nap in Southeast Asia

If you don’t have a spouse or animal in the house, borrow one.

Don’t think about the plots you’re plotting
or people you want to sleep with.

Your work, your troubles will still be there when you wake.
Let them have a rest too.

If you can’t find the cool spot of the pillow,
appreciate its damp warmth.

Don’t let any parts of your body touch the mosquito net,
as the mosquitos will find you.

Most likely the mosquitos aren’t carrying
dengue fever or malaria.

Somewhere, something in the house—the refrigerator, electric fan,
the plumbing—is singing you a lullaby. Listen.

Your phone is not singing you a lullaby.
Put it in another room.

The birds, the bugs, the car horns, even the sidewalk karaoke
are all cheering you on to sleep. Let them.

Seal any anger in a glass jar and put it on a specimen shelf
with the others. You can examine it later.

Set the air conditioner or fan to make the temperature slightly cooler
than normal, then cover yourself with a sheet.

Do not lie in a fetal position. Casket style is better.

If a song is playing in your head (and there should always be
a song playing in your head), let it.

The car alarm drilling into your mind wants
to tunnel through your dreams. Follow it.

When trying to fall asleep, don’t compose
lists or poems. If you must, wait until you wake.

Richard Newman is the author of three books of poetry, most recently All the Wasted Beauty of the World (Able Muse Press, 2014), and the novel Graveyard of the Gods. His work has appeared in American Journal of Poetry, Best American Poetry, Boulevard, Tar River Poetry, and other magazines and anthologies. He currently teaches Creative Writing and World Literature at Al Akhawayn University in Morocco. Before moving to the Maghreb, he and his family lived in Vietnam, Japan, and the Marshall Islands.