If poems were fortune cookies
You’ll be better off, they’d say: a room of your own in bed,
even listening for the phone, crumbling cheetohs alone in bed.
Stickily I finger—no one’s home– the remote again,
mirror’s hard lessons lessened by what’s overthrown in bed.
Each season leaves dimpled bruises like Daphne’s flesh,
more pillows mounded like silicone in bed.
The morning sky blushes remembering
all the lands we discovered, places we’d flown in bed.
Tattooed arm slung snoring over rounded hip—
look how softly we’ve grown in bed.
Hands held across shattered glass table,
night’s fight shoved under by what’s still sown in bed.
To hell with what we were taught about hospital corners,
restless feet lash in misery—covers blown in bed.
Open-windowed sirens go wailing unheeded;
day’s guilt a deadweight sunk like stone in bed.
When you close your eyes, doctor,
what sins do you atone in bed?
(When you close your eyes, doctor,
what sins do you condone in bed?)