Small Bed

When you turn off the light
the room melts, butter in night’s hot pan.
We talk as the familiar sneaks back
wearing shy outlines.
You say we are so close
because our bed is small,
letting us carry night’s
long touch through the day.

It’s true.
Your skin is my address.
Your exhale my inhale.
Surely there are times
our eyelids flutter
as we lie here two bodies
dreaming one dream.

This is a reprint of work originally published in Tending.

Laura Grace Weldon is the author of a poetry collection titled Tending and a handbook of alternative education, Free Range Learning, with a book of essays due out soon. She’s written poetry with nursing home residents, used poetry to teach conflict resolution, employed poetry in memoir writing classes, and painted poems on beehives, although her work appears in more conventional places such as J Journal, Penman Review, Neurology, Verse Daily, Tikkun, Literary Mama, The Christian Science Monitor, Mom Egg Review, Pudding House, and Shot Glass Journal. Connect with her at https://lauragraceweldon.com and @earnestdrollery.

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