Mother and Child Sleeping

I sleep on the far edge of a large double bed
under the weight of a quilt I stitched together
to pass through the string of cold winter days and nights.
The pillows- six of them- take up more space
than the full female figure of my body.
I tuck my arms, legs, head inward
and curl up like a small dog, back to the wall,
not even hoping to be held.

I hold myself
like I am my own mother
like I am my own child.

Friday Night Behind Closed Doors

I’ve had too much dark chocolate, caramel, red wine.
I am flushed with sweets and blushing with the glitter and tassels
of Friday night burlesque, drag, accordion ballads of unrequited love.
Tonight I fanned the flames of flirtation with a man from Ohio
I used his large beard and computer coding jokes to skirt
the awkwardness of not having anyone
beside me and always being early.

Someone tried to take my jacket. I let him wear it.
Someone asked if I was drinking moonshine in my honey jar.
I wasn’t, but laughed and tossed my hair and hooted
with the rest of them and at the end of the evening
one friendly acquaintance asked, when is my debut?

Next Friday night I will mount the stage
with metal card table and red velvet bag of tricks
I will adjust the tension---
pull out my scraps
and sew them a quilt.

This is what I do behind closed doors.