The Bed the Size of a Small Country
Wyndam Garden Philadelphia International Airport Hotel, July 27, 2022
What am I doing here at the edge
of this wide land, sheeting beyond me,
hills like overstuffed pillows
guarding the north border, or is it west?
I am having difficulty with directions
since you left, though once I was the navigator,
and you the driver who sometimes
didn’t seem to know north from drought,
south from sought, but yes, we always found laughter
in the deserts—and I thought you were coming
with me, and now I am having trouble figuring out
just why I am or how I am going
or where to lay my head in these vacant hills.
Seven of them, count, and not one yields.
Sitting here at the edge, I look at myself
in a mirror the size of a small lake,
a small woman huddled in a barren place
though someone said, don’t look in the glass,
you’ll get pregnant. Like Abraham’s Sarah,
I guess, at ninety. Still ten years for that.
Read or listen to poetry by Lois Marie Harrod previously appearing in Terrain.org: two poems and four poems.
Header photo by Foundry Co, courtesy Pixabay.