Breadcrumb #305
DAVID IACONANGELO
When you
and you
would lie together,
the bed would eat
your recognition:
the smells of your bodies
the tastes of your mouths
the weight of your bodies
upon and beneath;
that knowing of the body,
your most trusted knowing,
your ancestors’ knowing
in their brutal millennia.
And your beloved
was not your beloved.
You
and you
may have felt that something was awry
and groped for light.
There was no light
It wouldn’t go on.
Or else the bed had eaten well
the bones crunched up
no other searching
could take place
it seemed there was
no other knowing
but your ancestors’ knowing
in their brutal millennia.
A yellow door would open then
The lid unscrewed
on jars of laughter
The bed would eat
the last of your knowing.
Your beloved
was not your beloved.