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After my husband died, my mother came to stay with me for a while, and shared our double bed. One night, unable to sleep in my grief, I suddenly remembered she too was a widow, though of quite a few years. I then composed the following piece.
TWO LADIES
by Shirley Friedman
Two ladies in a double
bed,
Rememb'ring husbands
Dead and gone for many years.
Gone too the heartache and the tears.
And yet
Some time within the night
Limbs collide.
They each awake with fright
At the unaccustomed touch,
Recalling kisses, love and such.
The feel of fingers on their skin,
The thrill without,
The warmth within
As bodies mingle
Each in tune
Unto the other.
Very soon,
Still in their cocoon of pretended sleep
Their senses quiver.
The sluggish stream becomes a river.
Oh, the ecstacy,
The pain
Of memories writhing in their brains.
Hot lips demanding,
Searching, seeking.
The hungry ache in loins increasing.
They twist and turn, shake, perspire,
Consumed by an internal fire.
And all in silence.
The turbulence begins to
quieten,
They find release
In tears that spring unbidden to their eyes,
And bring them peace
Of a kind.
Carefully
Lest the other be aware,
They wipe away the tears,
Stare
Into the darkness,
Turn upon their sides
Bodies curving
Like a nest in which their lovers
Used to rest,
Empty arms clasped to their breast.
And sleep claims once again
It's victims,
Lying one beside the other.
Two ladies in a double bed.
A daughter - at her side, her mother.