by Greg Gregory

She is all intuition, feelings, dreams
wrapped in soft skin.

She shifts, freeing one long leg from mine
tangled in blue blankets, flannel sheets in winter,
thin cotton on summer nights, covers on covers.

The ceiling fan slowly rotates over the bed.
Its soft breezes drift over us.

She curves against my leg, my hand.
I feel the small scar on her back
L5/S1 fused, ten years ago.

She moves in her sleep, her skin
slips under my fingers.

The life in skin next to you that you
have loved, fought with, been with
wrapped in blankets for thirty-nine years.

Wrapped in blankets of flannel, blanket of cotton,
blankets and blankets of numberless nights.

Four titanium pins put in.
I press my hand on the small of her back,
I can take away the pain, for a time.

Covers received an honorable mention in the California Quarterly 2020 annual contest.


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