Lately, waking in the night

I turn myself, move to the far side of the bed

His bed, his golden bed 

painted gold by him, long before we met

Never did this move before — his side!

Always his, right side was his, his bedtime need

(so I went left, both newfound bedsides fine by me)

his big down pillows piled up very high

his fair share of his heavy wool duvet (I learned duvet from him)

his preference, duvets, a Polish taste, he said, now mine

(his Polish tastes now mine, all mine)

his eyes, closed roundly, softly sealed

his lips half smiling in his secret dream

his lovely lively limbs stretched smoothly out in sleep

his many silver scars, his slender warmth

his shadowed shape, his scent

his everything

Never used to wake at night but now I do

Sometimes I do, just sometimes, feeling chilled

or nightmare-shocked, or some small ache perhaps —

now when that happens, sometimes I move right

Turns out his side is better now than mine

smoother, sweetly firm, more welcoming

Unburdened mattress sector lasting better, stronger there?

Six years I have not turned the mattress, since his cruel, stupid death

his bedside borders left intact, untouched since then

not pressed upon by living moving flesh, hence more resilient?

Or something else. . .at least the right side has a better, gentler feel

now that sometimes I will turn, move 

migrate right, concealed by night

Does not feel wrong, or sad, though I don't ever start out there

just deep in darkness, late, as if I am invited now

sometimes I travel to that land

and, somehow, it is good