This one is
ours, you say, totally new,
no memories of prior marriages,
no bad vibes in worn out springs.
We rush upstairs, lay out brace and rail,
hinge and pin, dismantle the old bed
with the gusto of iconoclasts, strip away
plastic wrapping from newel posts,
scrollwork of the metal headboard,
porcelain globes painted with just
opened roses, delicate green leaves,
romantic fantasy of a bed like a garden.
We stand the headboard against the wall,
push the frame against it. The holes in one
are too low for the other. We go out to find
a new frame, this one not the usual
brown, as green as ivy instead, to suit
the headboard's white, like starting over.
Back at home we try again. The first time
we do it backwards, the rail to hold the bed
turned around. Then I curse when the center
support pinches my finger. You laugh. I laugh.
Nothing's been easy in this coming together.
Finally, we lay the mattress down on fresh springs,
set the pillows in layers of iris and rose,
tuck in clean sheets at every corner,
press out wrinkles from a new comforter
full of feathers, stand back, look, breathe,
watch each other's faces, almost giddy, almost
childish,
almost afraid to lie down
in this perfection.
ours, you say, totally new,
no memories of prior marriages,
no bad vibes in worn out springs.
We rush upstairs, lay out brace and rail,
hinge and pin, dismantle the old bed
with the gusto of iconoclasts, strip away
plastic wrapping from newel posts,
scrollwork of the metal headboard,
porcelain globes painted with just
opened roses, delicate green leaves,
romantic fantasy of a bed like a garden.
We stand the headboard against the wall,
push the frame against it. The holes in one
are too low for the other. We go out to find
a new frame, this one not the usual
brown, as green as ivy instead, to suit
the headboard's white, like starting over.
Back at home we try again. The first time
we do it backwards, the rail to hold the bed
turned around. Then I curse when the center
support pinches my finger. You laugh. I laugh.
Nothing's been easy in this coming together.
Finally, we lay the mattress down on fresh springs,
set the pillows in layers of iris and rose,
tuck in clean sheets at every corner,
press out wrinkles from a new comforter
full of feathers, stand back, look, breathe,
watch each other's faces, almost giddy, almost
childish,
almost afraid to lie down
in this perfection.
| putting up the new bed by scott owens r.kv.r.y. quarterly literary journal fall 2008 to winter 2009 poetry |