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  • Beds
  • Stephen Gibson (bio)

It was a cast party — nothing happened — it was too late to call; of course, everyone was drinking; what, you never shared a bed?

In his plague journal, the penitent records that he required himself and his wife to eat no meat or fish and to sleep on horse hair beds.

I responded to a complaint about an odor from the apartment; the needle was in the subject’s arm; she was bare, lying on a bed.

The NYC Police Commissioner admits he will never understand it: he holds up photos of the arrested woman’s children in their beds.

In the diorama, a physician unlocks the woman’s chain from the floor; one of the late eighteenth-century reforms in psychiatric care was a bed. [End Page 28]

Stephen Gibson

Stephen Gibson is the author of four poetry collections: Paradise (Miller Williams Prize finalist, University of Arkansas Press, 2011), Fres coes (Idaho Prize for Poetry, Lost Horse Press, 2009), Masaccio’s Expulsion (MARGIE/Intuit House book prize, 2006), and Rorschach Art (Red Hen, 2001). The poem in this issue is from a book in progress called “The Garden of Earthly Delights, a Scrambled Abecedarian.”

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