After Matthew Zapruder

Sometimes my bed gets jealous watching
romances flash on screen, its untouched
edges frostbitten. I remember when my
older brother’s bed looked like a red car,
when I spent my free time in a plastic tent
in my room where all of my coloring books
and blankets slept. When I was young,
I defined people by their heroes. My older
brother liked Superman, but when we played,
my head split open on a bed frame and bled
all over the beige carpet. I was severed from
pain, like watching guilt-trip charity ads for
so long they stitch into montage. Once, I
had a mattress that surfed the stairs, giggling
when it hit the walls, then bare mattress laid
in front of the tv, happy to be occupied by sweat
and tangled sheets. My mother’s bed comforts
her when she’s sick, reaching out with plump
arms to ease the aches. We kids used to spend
Sunday morning piled on the comforter,
trying to wake up without cartoons or coffee.
We watched Bedknobs and Broomsticks, idly
thinking of how the world would look if we
flew above the ground and sea, above crowds
and rooftops without ever leaving the comfort
of our pillows, long before reality told us of
the Wright brothers and the laws of physics,
and before my great-grandmother drooped
on a sterile bed, her face resting on her shoulder.