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The Empty Bed "When you sleep in your clothes, it's not really sleep, it's waiting for dark to be light." --Jennifer Lauck That's how we were. Never quite safe. I'd sleep in a robe up to my chin clamped on the cotton like Tupperware lids. Summer moons were cashew curls outside the drapes. Whole and plump, beyond the arduous reach. I wonder now, these acres of a queen-sized bed seem to house jesters in black and white mocking my rivers of blood. The mattress is smiling with lines of our lies -- their garlic still fresh as witches we were. Under my ribs, the fist and the vein consider this sorrow a home. Crushing the acorn at dusk does nothing to center a sickly tree. The forest forgetting the snow will have to remain a journey of suns rolling their pennies over the ice. My reading lamp extends its arm -- its shadow makes war like a sword. Mud packs ride my tired eyes; I finger a sonnet of lace where strangling roots once choked the dirt. Next I'll braid the scrawny daisies stripped of oblong ivory. I've folded the lips of new sheets -- pretty side up -- replaced the pillows you weren't.
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