by Faulkner Fox

Finally they slept, stationed just below our bedroom.
We did owe them -- they had let us bring our dog
to their beach home in Florida.
So they got their prim tribute -- gray brisket,
creamed potatoes, an audience
for their gall stone removal stories.
At midnight, limp but righteous,
we were done.

We snuck like teenagers
to the attic, a sparse room
with one twin bed, one red clock.
A room where children would go,
if we ever conceived any.

Lying on the twin, we began
to make love, and the bed
hummed and swayed,
but we were two floors
above our guests -- far enough to blur
the noises furniture can make.

Sometimes in sex
there are pinched moments
when your mind won't let anyone else
drive the boat. All you can do
is get up, try to shake it out.

We got up together
and looked back at the bed, thankful
to see below the bedclothes for once.
A bat, trapped in the mattress,
was flapping back and forth.
We had never known
pregnant furniture before.

Standing there naked
in the small room, we decided
(and a decision like this is always final)
to lie back down on the bat.
At first, we worked to hold
the bat's beat in our own.
But later, we moved on, into a gallop.

When I have trouble sleeping,
I am lullabied by this story, what it says:
when called for, cruelty fits me,
soft butter on a knife.