When we got out of bed, all four corners
of the fitted sheet had pulled off and curled
in toward the center, exposing sallow
sweat stains, cat claw pockmarks. Sagging pillows,
propped at the wall, leaned sideways, partisan:
one to the left with all the air squeezed out,
one to the right, pillowcase half-peeled back,
baring its wrinkles, its white surface, its
inadequacy. We left them like that.
We had weeds to uproot outside, and ripe
persimmons in paper bags to set out
for passers-by. In the rooms of the house,
we had dust to sweep away; we had eggs
to fry. We had children to awaken.
Meg Yardley lives in the San Francisco Bay Area. Her poetry and short fiction have recently appeared or are forthcoming in publications including Gulf Coast, Salamander, SWWIM, Cagibi, and West Trestle Review.
