Though the bed died during the night
this sheet is reaching for flowers
still warm from the last time they saw daylight

as one more hole in the Earth
'it's for them you heat the room
with wood each morning heavier
breathing in the way you fill your arms
with sores no longer holding on
'this bed was left to die in the open

as the space between two pillows
that grieves with the ancient scent
cooling your lips among the ashes.
  

Si Perchik's poetry has appeared in Partisan Review, The Nation, The New Yorker and elsewhere.

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