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song of the mattress
song of the mattress
she slept, wrinkled and small
on satin sheets, a band-aide covering her mattress,
knees tucked tightly beneath her chin
and legs pressed against her breasts
as if waiting for a gigantic splash when she hit the water
motionless, she dreamed of burgundy and peaches from georgia
and hoped to drive to smyrna on sunday
two hundred and thirteen miles, south and mostly straight
funny how juice spilled from a peach onto burgundy satin
looks like blood
it was raining when it happened but that isn’t important
she would have loved the rain on any other day
and recorded it on her already overcrowded ‘to do’ list
but today, peaches and burgundy satin sheets
embezzled her sleeping mind
and kept the rain out
when she rolled over, the creaking sound from overworked coils
reminded her of that regretful night in april
when hidden within the box spring,
tornadoes of metal circles pushed hard
against white pine
collapsing under the weight of two dissimilar bodies
before exploding again before collapsing
again before exploding again
in unison,
complaining springs beneath her body screamed for silence
while she battled fiercely to hold on to consciousness
as the bulldozer push of his weight drove her deeper into oblivion
dazed, her dream made a wide right turn at the intersection
where she thought of headlights and honking horns
spinning clockwise like a fleeting second hand
with no intention to stop until the minutes all ran dry
plums, swollen and tender—
purple patches that promised to never heal—
caused her to tighten the grip on her own body
as she trembled and began to sob loudly
drowning out the erratic song of the mattress
he would not stop until she made him stop…abruptly
the noise was loud but for only a second
funny how blood mixed with peach juice on burgundy sheets
still looks like blood
the song of the mattress was silenced
tolbert
Copyright ©
wayne tolbert
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