The made bed
Kim Triedman
Before you, there was the
knowledge: warm, taut, breath
reversed; imprint preceding
hand.
What does your husband have to
say about this?
Dampness, anticipating kiss; only a
shape, back then: a space
between words,
between skin—
My husband?
Something would come, I knew—a
color, perhaps—blood
orange, something like
flame. The bed was waiting,
My husband says nothing.
My husband knows nothing.
white sheets clean and
softened with age, pillows
smoothed—
silent—
plumped.
