He says I steal covers,
I say he moves past middle
if I get up for the bathroom
In summer, there are never
cool sheets when we want them,
only body heat ripping
through the fibers.
But if this sleeping apart ever
becomes permanent, by chance or
by choice, I will mourn my foot
kicked out in the dead cold
of winter, toes so cold
they ache. I will mourn
the pull back under
& the press against his hot shin,
the times I did this, waking him,
the times I didn’t
but knew I could.
Pittsburgh Quarterly is now accepting submissions for its weekly online poetry feature. PQ Poem is seeking poetry from local, national and international poets that highlight a strong voice and good use of imagery, among other criteria. To have your work featured, send up to three previously unpublished poems in Word or PDF format as well as a brief bio to
Simultaneous submissions are accepted, but if work is accepted elsewhere, please alert us.