A Bed of Strangers
He says Good morning awkwardly,
head perhaps leaning
towards a hushed lamp
and she replies simply, Hi,
as if they were just meeting,
the morning and then the night
unwinding itself. Her arm
around his open chest
they could be lovers, he asks,
Did you sleep well?
And in his head questions
Where can I touch you?
She would say, I like to be kissed
on my bicep. If they were lovers,
he would know this about her,
that her moans are louder
with fingers lightly brushing
the beauty-mark on her right thigh.
She says, It’s hard for me to sleep
once the sun rises, and would like
to curl his hair between her lips.
He thinks about being inside her again,
instead makes a comment
about the weather
and they go on, until he begins
to cradle her bicep
the way morning and then night
unwinds itself. He says,
Your skin tastes sweet
and wonders about brushing his teeth
she says, I like how the rays
are bursting through the curtains,
he replies something about wanting
to stay in bed for hours
and she watches the sun
touch his brow with its long fingers.
The day is moving along his face,
she can see this and wonders
about brushing her teeth.
He says, I want to throw the sheets
on the floor.
He says this because the sun
makes him feel spontaneous
and she says nothing,
feels his fingers slip inside her,
her eyes shut or observing
the beads of sweat above his eyebrows,
and the sun lays its rays
on a corner of the mattress
where a foot may have dug deeply
into the spring.
| Nika Levikov |
|
levelheaded: A Bed of Strangers
Nika Levikov’s “A Bed of Strangers” captures the awkwardness and the excitement of two strangers connecting. In describing the scene, the speaker’s uncertainty about specific details mirrors the couple’s apprehension when moving from strangers lying in bed with one another to lovers.
The poem’s “he” doesn’t know “that her moans are louder / with fingers lightly brushing / the beauty-mark on her right thigh.” Instead of asking “Where can I touch you,” he asks if she slept well. The unfamiliarity with the other expressed here is subtly reflected in lines like “head perhaps leaning / towards a hushed lamp”; “her eyes shut or observing / the beads of sweat above his eyebrows”; “a foot may have dug deeply / into the spring.” By using words like “perhaps,” “or,” and “may have,” Levikov creates a more human persona—not an all powerful omniscient narrator, but someone who is not connected enough herself to present this story with complete certainty. The speaker treads as lightly as the new couple.
This close reading allows us to identify a fun, easy conceit—the poet discovering the poem is akin to new lovers discovering one another. Thankfully, this metaphor is a subtle undercurrent, not the poem’s main focus, as Levikov’s intent is not to call attention to her own cleverness. Instead, she focuses on striking visual images (“The day is moving along his face”) and the thoughts of the poem’s central characters (“she can see this and wonders / about brushing her teeth”) to create a believable world we can lose ourselves in.
It is significant that when the couple finally become physically intimate, language is thrown to the wayside (“she says nothing, / feels his fingers slip inside her”). There’s no more trivial talk about the weather, just “the sun lay[ing] it rays / on a corner of the mattress / where a foot may have dug deeply / into the spring.” In this final line, the word “spring” suggests that this first physical union could be the start of something even better, and because Levikov has created nuanced characters we can imagine, we hope that it is.
– The Editors
