Wynne Morrison

You make a spot for your bear at the end of the bed,
then crawl back under your blankets
holding a new toy next to your face.

The bear sits with her soft face unchanged,
short brown polyester fur covered in your smell,
last year’s rescued ribbon around her neck.

Many times I’ve kissed her goodnight
by mistake in the dark.  Many hours
I’ve searched with you when she couldn’t be found.

Casually, I ask “Do you want your bear?”
“I’ve slept with her a thousand times!”
as if that were reason enough to move on.

I touch your forehead, smooth back your hair.
In the hall, I cry for a bear whose eyes
can only stay dry and who will probably
be back in your arms tomorrow.