Making the Bed by Dale Champlin

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.

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