by Peter Schwartz
bed as woman
your bed has hips like any woman
your sheets are love letters written, folded and forgotten
as you turn into yourself like anyone
with nowhere else to go, as you sweat in foreign languages
in a place too big to pretend back from, a sad bed
that’s become your everything
bed as ship
honesty works in a variety of ways; you lay on your barely
swaying mattress and push out thoughts like a midwife
but they have no hot spot, no breaking
point to send them flying to the furnace, so you cling to
the fog around your wrists, cloudy as a sailor locked
inside a landfill, imitating yourself
to death.
bed as grave
sorry, but your bed’s been growing plants nobody wants
your entanglements were not provocative
the sky was meant to stay that way
the mud you never loved was your best and worst flaw
how cleanly you imagined the rain, how you mixed
your feelings with your blankets
to fall asleep.
Peter Schwartz‘s words have been featured in Wigleaf, Opium, and the Columbia Review. He’s also an artist, comedian, and dedicated kayaker. More at: www.sitrahahra.com
A-Minor 