Making the Bed

When morning comes, you ask me if I’d like to make the bed

Not with words but with intent

Your hand on the crumpled sheet 

Your eyes gesturing to a future moments from now

When all that fabric lies smooth and placid

But I don’t think I will make the bed

Not today

Because for a while someone told me I must make my bed

And make it over if it didn’t satisfy 

I won’t make my bed today because I’m unlearning

The idea that I must be 

Neat

Presentable

Organized 

Before I am allowed to be

Loved

Held

Worthy

I won’t make my bed because the blanket has spilled in a passionate splash onto the floor

The pillows all mangled 

And they invite me messily, sexily, into my soft animal nest

Most of all I won’t make my bed because your presence lingers in it long after you go

And a clean sweep of the sheet would disturb those tender feathers 

I won’t make the bed, and tonight when I climb in 

I will be embraced by the memories of you

While your arms are elsewhere