From Bed

Lisa Russ Spaar

Old marital disputation;

Hadal the cliff, nightly perch.

Too old to hang there, defying gravity?

Spring rain. Fresh gown

of horoscopes. She wears a bodice

of welts. Stress, futility, allergy?

Even at the mattress edge,

her birth stone is green

with blood occlusions.

To sleep, she pretends

she is a pilgrim in a church

furtively biting the altar cross.

Saints abolish time without telling.

Touch foreheads, beloved ghost.

Keep this in the head, of course.

The mouth its splintered source.

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