Issue Twenty-Five - Winter 2015

In Bed

By H. R. Webster

talking nonsense into the down  
you call me your horse girl
because I am big & blond
and simple in my cruelty. 

your cruelty anything but 
simple—feathers clutch
your collarbone—
you like to smoke
grass and talk about 
the hearts I had broken.
				I could never 
				Love you 
you say 
hands at the whisper of my hem.  
				I could never make love to you
they pass the solemn hollows
of my knees.

Copyright 2015 Webster