My wife in bed, wound in her cloth cocoon,
sleeps on her side, as her book has recommended:
the book I gave her for her twentieth birthday,
the first she's had now that her childhood's ended.
I like to wake before her on lazy mornings
and turn to face her, holding my next breath in,
to quietly admire the way her lashes rest
like delicate fans on her morena skin.
A flower of Mexico, rose of Nayarit;
so small, a miracle of four-foot-seven;
and now she's wakened, beautiful and brown,
frowning, fourty-five minutes before eleven.
sleeps on her side, as her book has recommended:
the book I gave her for her twentieth birthday,
the first she's had now that her childhood's ended.
I like to wake before her on lazy mornings
and turn to face her, holding my next breath in,
to quietly admire the way her lashes rest
like delicate fans on her morena skin.
A flower of Mexico, rose of Nayarit;
so small, a miracle of four-foot-seven;
and now she's wakened, beautiful and brown,
frowning, fourty-five minutes before eleven.
No comments:
Post a Comment
Talk to me!