The bed

covered in empty blankets like old bodies

huddled in the cold—

they will be kindling soon for being wrinkled

The bed is without us, dry and without heat  

Maybe the sheets resolve to climb out of the ache of aged love,

make a chamber for our souls

We have never visited a graveyard together, but toured

the Catacombs             Never once flinching at the sight of such an end

Holidays in Paris, we could pay no mind to the ossuaries

Dine with strangers and dribble ribald speech over wine

Youth was wet and sanguine

But vulgarities haunt, their heads throw back the sublime

Age has frozen us, our sockets, life no longer revolves

We’d prepared ourselves for civilized deaths

Time accelerated with fire rather than snow

K Dulai lives in California where she works in nonprofit development. Her work appears in Glass: A Journal of Poetry, Pretty Owl Poetry, The Eastern Iowa Review, and other publications. She can be found on Twitter as @kjdulai