What a person desires in lifeis a properly made bed.This isn’t as easy as it seems.There must be a mattress,made of plucked feathers,farmed cotton,stretched tightly beneaththin fibers of a 1000 count sheet.There must be cased pillows and a comforterfolded and arranged,laid out in perfect order byone partner in a couple who was justtold by the other to“Do it for once because I amalways the one whomakes it.”There must be a fan thatwitnesses in the corner of the room.The fan, bought and placed in these four walls whenpassion still fogged the windows and pushed the comforter off thebed’s corners.Now the bed waits alone all day.The witness breathes dust until bodies return, cross thethreshold andclimb intorusted springs. Theysqueal.Toss and turn. The bodiesdisplace the pillows to the faux wood plankfloors where they land with muffled moansas their cases kiss unswept dust,and the bodies unravelthe 1000 threads which bind their souls tenuously togetheras they attempt to rip free from amonotonous routine that no longerremembers the gentletremourof unfamiliar lips greeting.Heat now breeds unfaithful, hazy visions in the night ofanother’s arms holding your body against theirs.A different set of hands make andmold your flesh until you openred-rimmed eyes toseecovers kickedand twisted around your anklesand your partner’s.Rain falls238 miles on untilled soil, barrenand reaped of cotton.It is loud,the whirring of the electric fan thatwitnesses in the corner of the room.
Underneath its murmur,the rumbleof distant thunder,the frame of our relationship groans.