you made your bed with
the quilt your grandmother made for you as a child,
before she got sick.
you have it pulled across the mattress,
severely taut,
just as she showed you.
it's late in the day,
yet summer sun still finds a way
to come in through the blinds.
the slanted light draws lines across your arms
a distant hum -
the fan swivels back and forth
slowly shaking its head in disappointment,
until you finally move,
reaching over to rip the plug from the wall;
silence