This Bed
I’m counting the years I’ve slept in this Charleston four-poster rice bed, and yes, the men who’ve slept here with me. More than five, fewer than a dozen, only two still rooted in regret. Even when nights are long and cold, I let them simply float above me, serene in the ether. Tonight the room is stuffy enough to wake me. I push back the comforter, slip off my Smart-wool socks to cool my feet. I roll from side to side, soothing my mind with deep breathing and a rhyming game. The air chills. I pull up the covers, consider how cozy those socks would feel if I hadn’t tossed them across the floor, too far for me to reach.
