King-Sized Bed
July 12 2010


You stretch, yawn, wiggle your toes
in the luxury of this king-sized bed
alone —
your Queen
called away,
detained by affairs of state.

Sharing a bed is a languorous dance,
like moving through warm dark water.
A clumsy pas de deux,
consisting of fluid tableaux
subtle adjustments —
her heat, her touch
an insistent nudge,
the pressure of another so close.
You shift, uncomfortably,
then fit easily into each other.
You feel her lift you up
into twilight sleep,
then gently set you down.

Arms drape, bodies spoon
a smudge of drool on the pillow,
the scent of her hair, unspooled.
The covers, never quite shared
equally.
You’re always hot
she complains it’s cold,
so you take the side with windows,
the movement of air
like a cooling pirouette.

Together so long
there’s more sleep than sex,
but you know her so much better.
Except that these last few years
she insists on closing the window
so the neighbours don’t hear.
Bolero, fandango
hot salsa, and tango
are now a slow dance at the prom,
her head on your shoulder
rocking slowly
enfolding each other in arms.

The mattress sags in the middle.
You migrate to the edge,
you miss her.
You feel hollow
without her warm substantial body
next to yours.
This king-sized bed is enormous,
a bottomless ocean, trying to float
with nothing to hold on.

So the King, in all his armour
feels himself sinking, sinking deeper,
then jolts up
gasping for air.