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?)
was drinking wine &
thinking about penitence,
thumbing through possibilities
of ever after. i have known much
of bleeding, after all, of
bea(u)tification, and now
it’s Ash Wednesday, as they say
in the French, and all
the red roses are gone
from my hair, and it’s
we still dream in blades and
villanelles and other vague
to our own
very great surprise
we have survived the night,
came through in stereo,
with beads on, and
we fall, as the year
into december, so
that calls our quiet
is the absence
the rails we walked
for so long
on january’s horizon.
your left hook
against the coming
can only melt