Making beds.

Making beds.

Yours

is always a mess of clothes and bedsheets,

a tangled mass of your possessions; wrinkled

boxers, loose pocket change, the occasional dirty sock.

Mine

is neat, if only at night.

Sometimes made during the day, but rarely,

only re-tucked hastily before I – or we – climb in once more.

Making the bed

is usually my job, not because you ask me to,

but because the unmade, crumpled bedclothes

drive me crazy, make me want to tuck them in nicely, neatly.

I find pieces of myself

mixed up in the fabric of your sheets.

There’s a castle you captured

in a game of chess, a song lyric fondly scribbled

on a crumpled scrap of newspaper

I find tucked between the mattress and the box springs.

Unmake the beds, remake ourselves.

Let all the chaotic imperfections shine through

the overturned, pulled-out-of-place

sheets, comforters, blankets, pillows…

There’s no us in a neatly tucked bed.

We can only be found in the chaos.

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2 thoughts on “Making beds.

  1. The first time I read it I didn’t really get it too much.
    But then I came back a few minutes later and I really liked it. Is that unusual?

    But either way, I got sex out of the last part. I know that’s strange and probably not what you had in mind as the interpretation, but it’s one thing that you can get out of it. Sex/relationships.

    Am I right? What were you thinking babe?

    • There wasn’t really any truth to this one, in relation to my life, that is. It was just an idea I decided to play around with. And no, I don’t think that’s unusual at all when it comes to poetry. Haha.

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