The night the old mattress ruined my spine,
I could hear its coils squeak a rhythm inside the ticking,
could feel the tufts and buttons pressed into my back,
thought, tomorrow I’ll cut those rosettes off with the sharp
scissors I keep for thread, for cloth, to mend. I rub
its long blades opened like an angel, like a big letter V,
on a strip of old leather, back and forth, hone it fine.
I’ll save the buttons (because they’re hard as teeth)
in a box for odd and loose things. Sometimes, pleasure
has no name and is simply the lifting off of me, the lack
of weight, of god, of touch.
