Jena in the bed

Jena In The Bed





As you slept, I watched your lips,

crushed as they




softly against the sheets,

a half-open gasp that

belied the tranquil rest


of the sweep of your eyes’

fans of black grass.




The sum of your fingers being

a weight of waves


on my hand.




What is the curve


of your body

saying? I try to let


the palm


of my hand call out your cells

to know


the ancient shibboleth


that spoke

such love to


existence, but

only your flames tell of heat.


The bed is a curve of light

that cannot contain you.

The bed is a bell that cannot

translate its own ring.

The bed is a boat that

swims under the waves, but

does not sink.


Jena on the bed.

Jena, you are sleeping.

Your eyes close upon

the cauldrons of copper that,

when woken, cause

the metals of my body to be laid

to a steam.

You are sleeping.

You sleep with me,

even as I rise

to write this poem for you.


Jena of the sheets,

Jena of the pillows,

Jena of the springs

and the wooden frame beneath her.

It’s always Jena,

Jena in the bed.


About Paul Gordon 2955 Articles
Paul Gordon is the publisher and editor of iState.TV. He has published and edited newspapers, poetry magazines and online weekly magazines. He is the director of Social Cognito, an SEO/Web Marketing Company. You can reach Paul at

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