Self-portrait, with bedclothes

You make your bed, you lie
in it: as late as you can, until
they yell at you to get up

lazybones and you can choose
to line it with moss or memory
foam and magazine pages

or the crumbs from a midnight
snack of peanuts, pork cracklings
dipped in spicy vinegar. You can pray

at night to the god in the middle
of the pillow or hide in the mattress
the stash of letters from that boy

with the darkest eyelashes— And this
is the age before karaoke or Spotify,
but you have the newest Song Hits

and hold your hairbrush
to your lips like a microphone.
Make your bed, you’re told: you

make it and make it until
your legs are long and old and you
don’t need permission anymore.

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