Bed, lie in it

Today you unmake it,
kick the happy pillows across the room.
You slice a hole in the sheet,
pull it over your head,
to mourn the body
you will never lose.
You burn the comforter
with the blue giraffes nibbling leaves,
make toast of the notebooks
you’ve been keeping for years.
You hang the dreams
slopped under the alarm clock out to dry.
And you shoo away the rest.
You beat the bedposts,
the headboard, with your fists
as if you were talking to your mother.
You make kindling of the boxspring,
hay from the mattress.
You feed the wild animals
anything they want.
You have never felt so useful
or exhausted,
as you close your eyes
and think of nothing.
The very shape of it.

Chris Semansky | Mudlark No. 20
Contents | The Lover I Need