"My Side of The Bed" by Tim Moder

I feel your fingers work my hair like a jar of butterflies.

You’re laying sideways on my pillow and you worry I 

won’t feel you. Just your fingers. With my begging head 

pressed against the pulse of your breast you trace letters 

on my back for me to guess. Slow letters in a carnal code.  

You say, now do me. I do. I worry you won’t remember me 

either, after the skin has settled and the sun comes up and

a blackberry-stained porcelain bowl rejoices in the kitchen 

sink. You say, let’s not get up. But you will. And the picture 

will swirl and the places will change. Eventually, after a life 

I’ll be the only one left who remembers. And I will. As an 

early translation of a lost manuscript that I quote in my sleep 

when the feeling goes out of my body and my eyes smile politely 

and my side of the bed forgets everything but your fingers.

Tim Moder is a poet from northern Wisconsin. His poems have appeared in Denver Quarterly, Cutthroat, South Florida Poetry Journal, One Art, and others. He is the author of the chapbooks All True Heavens (Alien Buddha) and American Parade Routes (Seven Kitchens). He is a member of The Bad River Band of Lake Superior Chippewa. His poems have been nominated for Best of the Net and the Puchcart Prize. Find him at timmoder.com