Everyone had the same IKEA bed.
                 She tied my wrists to hers, above my head.
(She liked what she called “clean lines,” I would learn;
                 her major had been architecture.)
Sometimes when I lay there, waiting, bound or free,
                 I’d envision its assembly:
the tiny standard-issue wrench that torqued
                 the socket of the bolt, drawing the particleboard
flush against the rails. The hundred screws.