Two Poems by Karla Linn Merrifield
how exquisite the hot-hot-heat stirred with wit,
his blissful lesson imprinted on my clit.
This dead husband of mine left me richly
endowed with the visceral certainty—
laughter lubricates the imagination.
Surely the dear dead husband of this libido-
mad merry widow chortles—
make their bed every day.
I’m one among that cohort.
I couldn’t not extract books
from covers, plump pillows,
tuck sheets, fluff the comforter.
It’s what one does, has always done,
even if only the dead applaud the habit.
Mom wouldn’t have it any other way,
nor Aunts Gertie and Carole, nor Uncle Karl,
nor, come to think, my departed husband.
I have made my bed.
Now I get to sleep in it.
No one gives a damn with whom.