Room With A Bed In The MiddleWhile I sleep my wife writes words
on my back.
She wants me to feel what she thinks,
what's inside her chest.
When I wake the letter Q boils between
my shoulder blades
as if it were branded or etched.
I think she traced C
but there's longing in her and she hates
the word covet.
Her delicate hands can’t hold desire.
She is sitting on top of me
naked, though her hair clothes her.
The bed isn't large
enough for this love tracing from her
fingers. The room
diminishes when she opens her eyes.
Curtis Bauer******************
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"On a walk I saw two children playing a word game: the boy traced each letter of a word with his index finger on the girl’s back; her eyes were closed, she was smiling, pronouncing each letter he wrote, laughing, then frowning. Either the boy couldn’t spell or the girl couldn’t understand his fingers. The game didn’t last long, but I carried it with me for the rest of my walk, until it found its way into something like this poem."
Curtis Bauer is the author of the poetry collection Fence Line, which won the 2003 John Ciardi Poetry Prize. A founding member of the poetry collective, 7 Carmine, and the publisher of Q Ave Press chapbooks, Bauer’s poetry, nonfiction and translations have appeared in Barrow Street, The Iowa Review, The North American Review, Rivendell, Runes, and numerous other journals. After living for several years in Mexico, Spain and Iowa, he recently moved to Texas, where he is an instructor of creative writing at Texas Tech University. ******************
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