I fold the duvet the way
my mother ironed my father’s shirts.
You could tell she wanted him
to love her for it.
Bed is my nirvana—soft
and feathery as a push-up bra
I fluff up the pillows—
recall last night’s catastrophe.
That’s why I don’t want to remember
dreams. They can be disturbing.
Wakefulness is the planet I count on,
my mother blood.
Now that my father is dead
my mother no longer irons shirts.
She counts her stocks instead,
and I add up the dividends.
2 thoughts on “Making the Bed by Dale Champlin”
Dead and dividend, strife and afterlife —
A great poem!