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?)
we walk through thunder,
and there are drawn stormclouds
across your cheeks, brow; like train-
tracks to nowhere, and i’ll hop
the next boxcar, simple as un-
wanting, follow it til i find
the sun buried in your irides.
this metaphor is a railroad:
straight, the slow
unraveling of sudden horizons.
a friend tells me
the story of the red-
tail hawk attacked
sequentially by two crows
and a mockingbird. i
wonder if it’s because they know
jealousy like you do, see its predatory
threat atop every lamppost and
raindrops like fat clay pigeons hiss
against rusted rails, tear-on-trestle,
black-feathered bullets of omen:
where will you be
when the lightning comes down?