Oyster Boy Review 21  
  Poetry Annual 2014
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» Levee 67



Kathleen Hellen

Sex, she called it night.
Be sure he loves you
more than you love him,
my mother said.

When did they not sleep apart?
He snored, she said.
He was heavy on her chest.
The furniture too close association.

Now I sleep in it. The bed,
a canopy of separation. Not stead,
the place the brick is laid.
Nothing really—except where we lie.

I wake to . . . Who? who, who has done this to you?
A dove, whinnying. The kettle of the wren.

. . .