The bed is not for shelling peas nor husband fights nor knocking knees. The lay wants not for primrose lace between your legs nor on your face the spiderwebs of ancient mum’s tombed uteri plumbed contentious mild bounds upheaved stones bushwhacked, buzzed, down, till honey bees know not what’s left. This bed, this sunken living room, this craft table hulking over ridiculous womb was not for men’s needs was just for birthing was just for death caused by all stringings of babe and soul and created desires, unrest. This bed is of a mother’s pain. It is of six-inch wooden splinters, God awfulness and impossibly hard to maintain, woven rattan fixed in centuries, divorce, miscarriage, preeclampsia, spouse cheating...teenagers inherit it and paint it green and purple with words like here I lie…then die small deaths in it when the time comes to collect its pain. It’s mine, men…O, and it’s mine.