Heather Truett

Let me tell you what I know about beds,

how my friends Kimmi and Nicole and I fit into a twin,
teenage skin bared and pressed, head, feet, knees,
but Gray's grown-man bed was a siren’s call, a cotton 

caged island in waves I couldn’t swim. I scuba
dove down—drowned in the brimming brine of how
he deep sea fished for me, whispered 

bait, minnowed me with kisses while
I was fifteen, offered a rowboat and splinter
sunk the oars. I missed my mother’s 

safe harbor of a bed, free from his tossed tangle
of a net, his long-fingered hands, but there was no
space for me to moor myself, pillow float on floral 

sheets. I could not time machine
back to country rose comforter, a sister’s
feet to kick my shins. I’d give the whole sea 

to pedal boat back, tidal wave away
the years until a bed felt safe again, sand
dune over the boy saying my no 

was sexy, his hope to bore my boat till
the no blow jobbed him a yes, sail
past the tackle box of my body, the lobster 

trap crab cage low country marsh
mattress I snorkled to on wobbly knees.
Tonight, I choose memory 

foam, marriage mattress. I paid so much
to wreck myself ashore a softness
that will not smother.

________________________________________________________________________________________

Heather Truett holds an MFA from the University of Memphis and is a PhD candidate at FSU. Her debut novel, Kiss and Repeat, was released from Macmillan in 2021. She has work in Thimble, Hunger Mountain, Sweet, Whale Road Review, Jabberwock and others. Heather serves on staff for Beaver Magazine and is an editor emeritus for The Pinch. Find out more at www.heathertruett.com.