Unmade Bed. Poem by Terry Collett

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.