Unmade Bed

June 6 2011

The unmade bed

is at rest

in its quiet curtained chamber,

untended

undisturbed.

It passes the day

exactly as it was left   —

the mattress, sagging

covers, tossed back

a flattened feather pillow.

Gives up its heat, and remains

in the catatonic state

of a hibernating creature,

torpid, cooling.

Patiently waiting

to embrace its nightly guest.

There is a story, here,

in the dent from a head

the linen, a mess

some orphaned strands of hair.

In the body’s earthy presence,

where naked skin

left its dark impression

on freshly pressed sheets.

She paid attention

to thread count, colour,

the heirloom comforter

she lovingly pats down.

Pillows

placed, tactically

as if casually tossed.

Invisible corners

precisely tucked.

But I read somewhere

that the unmade bed is healthier,

resisting the stealthy advance of mould

and who-knows-what contagion,

airing out the moisture

that accumulates

from a living body

under warm occlusive covers.

Or from two

entwined with each other

in the dulled consciousness of sleep,

moving in concert, like call and response

almost as one.

Or breathing hard,

hungry for touch

all hands and tongue.

But I sleep alone.

And the bed

is a battleground,

of startled awakenings

and deeply drugged sleep,

of tossing and turning

in delirious dreams.

Pyjamas, soaked in sweat.

My unrequited body

hot, and wet.

Mornings are hard.

I awaken grudgingly

roll over, reluctantly

hit the floor with a thud,

sit slumped

on the soft compliant edge,

attempting to gather myself.

And in my rush, the bed goes untended.

Where it waits

patient, unmade,

unperturbed

by my absence, ingratitude.

Sure I’ll be back;

as I have

every night

so far.