by Diane Destiny

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Pillows

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PILLOWS The stripes on my pillow don’t match where the seams join the two sides. Shoddy pillow making is like shoddy love making, forced, painful. Push and twist, stuff and shove, the parts don’t mesh, the don’t fit, same as shoes that feel too tight with heavy socks on. It’s no good going on when that happens. Much better to think of something else, different and exhilarating. Riding on a merry-go-round for example. Horses start out distinct individuals. Avoid the ones that don’t go up and down, they’re a waste of energy. The others chase each other as they spin,. but even though they go faster they never catch up. I don’t want to be on the last one all alone and left behind as the others gallop off and disappear outside. The tigers don’t go, they don’t even move. Maybe they’re dangerous and can’t be trusted, like some people, like my lover. From late afternoon business meetings he’d come home, hang up his coat, talk daily trivia, eat a quick dinner, go to bed and turn on his side, his back to me. I would touch him and his flesh was cold, and stayed cold. When I outlined my body against him he’d pull away. No touch or caress could arouse him, so I would stop and wipe my wet cheeks on the pillowcase. Staring, without seeing, I would finally notice that the stripes don’t match. By Joyce Stein

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