I once slept in a beautiful bed.
Under an array of finely stitched samplers,
quilts and frilly things, made by my fingers alone –
starched, perfect bed linens.
I would awake in that bed starving,
exhausted from dreams that made me work and rework
those impossible equations that punish untidy minds.
Plagued with fevers so hot that your hair, if you were there,
would have caught on fire if you came close.
There were insects of my making in the kitchen of that house –
I let the birds in through the window so the birds would eat those insects
and then deliberately, without conscience,
let them pick the cupboards clean.
It should not surprise you that I left.
It seems pleasantly unfair
that now I awake next to you
there are no insects and no fear.
The coffee is pleasant, kind, and
a blue jay peeks in the window.
