My father needed

a new mattress

for himself after

my mother left.

My father asked

me what type

I liked

and made me sit on top of one

in the store.

I don’t know why I asked you,

he said, days later.

I remember

the freckles

on his back

and the bag

of beignets

he brought me when

I turned legal.

We

rested

in adjacent beds

at a New Orleans motel.

I like firm

goose feather beds now,

and men

who listen

to me

just to know

what I’d sound

like stoned

in a humid

unknown city

with absolutely no sense

of where I’d like to sleep.