Every morning I wake up with strange writings all over my body.
What are the wrinkles from my bedsheets inscribing onto my flesh?
Other carvings are easier to decipher:
waist lines imploring me to lose weight,
thin stripes declaring that I have feet but of clay,
and a groove around one finger
reminding me that I belong to one woman.
After making love with her on them,
are the creases jealous,
sneaking in dreams to confuse our love?
Or is the woven cotton kinder,
soothing me to keep still,
not to toss and turn and wear my nights thin?
If my linen is also wise,
it must be warning me that I will die one morning
bearing a final message,
something to sleep on.
- John Lee Clark