Domestic

This is the only work I’d ever
Write a poem for,
The hand slid down the sheet
To straighten neaten tuck
 
Make right
To encounter at its foot 
The glancing warmth
Not trapped but hugged
 
To self, a down
Embrace. You are
Elsewhere, I am
Here, mother
 
Tether, coverlet
You say
        	Grown
But this is why
 
Although self-help 
Instructs otherwise
Sometimes 
I make your bed.