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Queen-Sized

The distance between
our bed and our heaven

is slang jang and snake hips
mostly. Here are our dark matter

delicacies, our gypsy
bait. Here, our spittle

and switches. A ritual
tightening of the ropes

beneath the bed.
How the hands blaze.

How the thread count
smolders when we’re good.

Here’s where we pray
in fistfuls. An emergency

prophecy. Our hearts’
Chernobyl. We’ve done

our very best grieving
here. When finally, we fall,

our sleep is so lifelike
it holds our dreams hostage.  

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