Joy and Kenne (July 2010) — Image by Fellow Drinker
Losing the Bed
Sometimes when my wife and I
make love, she loses feeling
in her legs. It surprised me
when it first happened, gave me
a false sense of confidence,
as if my skin against hers
was somehow the reason for
the dead weight, the twitching that
followed as she lay next to
me in the almost-dark. But
in truth, it’s a disease, her
heart’s inability to
pump blood throughout the body.
Last night I woke from a dream
in which the shadow of her
former self rose from the ash,
took me by the hand, walked me
down a long hallway toward
our past, only my feet were
the ones dragging on the floor
as my mind tripped over each
healthy memory of her,
how she used to play tennis
at the park, or pull the kids
in their little red wagon,
or push a grocery cart
down the aisles of the Wegmans.
Now when she is beside me
I am afraid, knowing what
she’s been forced to surrender,
how even the comfort of
our bed can’t make us feel safe,
can’t restore the world we knew,
can’t shield us from the sickness
we’ve become for even one
naked second of the day.
