C.E. Chaffin


My bed calls to me, a bouquet
of white roses wrapped in fresh sheets,
sun-white and window-warmed.

Like a cod from the deep I am hauled to bed;
its rumpled buttocks welcome me.

I am drawn to bed by the scent of softener;
its hungry linen mouths my skin.


Clown-faced and innocent
my bed came to me,
grieving over the lost gravity
of my body.

Its button eyes wept over my heels'
impression in the carpet,
its stripes grew crooked with jealousy
at my hollow pant legs.

"You're too small," I said,
"my feet hang over your edge
like drying fish."

"You're too flat," I said,
"for me to conform to you
the way you do to me."

"You're too soft," I said,
"I sink into you like a stone
in a bowl of oatmeal."


My bed misses me and I am afraid.

I hear its anxious springs creaking at night.

There is nothing quite like me to fill its emptiness.