Four Corners to my Bed

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Jessica Lee McMillan

Man in white robe handing onto brass bed flying over city — Still from Dream of a Rarebit Fiend by Edwin S. Porter, 1906. Public Domain Review

my bed was a site of prayer four corners to my bed four angels around my head I bedded the universe in books, words learned positions on twin mattress red-eye flights to Brave New World Go Ask Alice I set sail with my Madonna poster blew thru plots dust covers off but beds only fly until their confines warp sentinel brass posts migrate with frame of mind become maraschino cherry ends on rolling tongue of a protoplanetary teen pubescent breaker of Procrustean beds orbiting past four, rapt in sun my burning poems untucked from Rolling Stone selling genre as quantifiable reality presuming covers are outer limits sores of identity not sites of information, the bed, I assembled myself with bolts and alan keys knew its undoing, grave how metal tubing twists and is mostly matter-less plot designation pining new forms prayers and posts bereft of thingness my rectangle now the shape of a question mark

Originally published in Train Poetry Journal, December 2022 (print: Train: a journal unlucky in love)

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