She always left
the bed unmade,
left the sheets and covers
pushed back,
let in some air,
let the smells of night
and making love depart.
And there was
the occasional
making of love,
the now and then
exchange of fluids,
the kisses on flesh,
the fingerings,
the sighs and yeses,
the catching
of moonlight
through uncurtained
windows.
She left the bed
unmade like some
symbolic gesture;
a sign of this
is how it is
with me
statement.
Men and women
have wrestled
with love
and doubts here,
she seemed
to want to say.
Two indented pillows
on either side
of the bed,
two holders
of the frail
human head.
She left
the unmade bed
with stains and smells
and memories
soaked in
as each particle
of cloth held
and branded
the human state
of sin.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem