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.