BEDS

My bed is made from yellowed pine
Battered and scarred from years of use
Piled high with pillows and a soft down comforter
It is my sanctuary, my refuge, and my temple.
To meet me here is to meet me without my secrets.

His bed is a black-framed futon
Taut, spare lines, its dark red cover exudes his maleness
No feminine softness dare invade this room.
Except a lurking cat*

Her bed is a platform over trunks of stored treasures,
Elderly blankets and an ancient bear,
A bedspread made to match the curtains. A woman's room.

My child sleeps on the top bunk,
Nestled in a pile of stuffed animals, wrapped in a faded sleeping bag.
The bottom bunk is strewn with toys and cast-off clothes.
This versatile piece of furniture does many duties,
It is by turns a fortress, spaceship, submarine, or castle.
But ultimately it is security, warmth, and rest.

My lover's bed is vast, with satin sheets.
It is his fantasy of luxury and seduction.
Black-lacquered wood and mirrors.
It is not for sleeping but for making love.
I hide my amusement at its blatant sexuality ­
I am far too sophisticated to be impressed by satin sheets, I think.
Yet I am laid on them happily, slipping on their smoothness, laughing.

My mother's bed is widow-small,
A genteel single bed with flowered sheets.
Long gone is the high, wide marriage bed in which my father died
Subject to morning invasions from a tribe of children
Spilled tea and orange juice,
Sticky fingers, cookie crumbs, and library books.

October 24, 1996