THE TOUCH OF HIM

THE TOUCH OF HIM

THE TOUCH OF HIM

At dawn, I lie on my side, beside him,
feel his fingers stir on me again like blessing,
then he lifts himself up, leaning on his elbow
with his mouth so close, over mine.
My legs stretch toward the bottom
of the bed, like the first, curved line
of daylight unfolding from its kernel into air.

I have forgotten the last time, this close,
I lay under a stranger’s skin and felt it worm
through me.  My eyes closed then.
I wept into the glare of the sealed lid.  
I see my body frozen on that ground,
the bare soul in its mouth
as if it was hauled out, half-dead.

Now, mornings open with his voice.
My love stretches his legs and turns over
onto his side to face me.  I see the goodness
of his hands as he moves his palm
over and over and over my body,
as if he was wiping clean, undoing,
redoing, seaming the sore with his quietness.

Soon the birds and daisies will come.
Last night, I had felt him bring my soul
forward with love cries and a hush of kisses.
I had stayed awake all night after,
my flesh suckling the naked touch of his,
feeling the sweet, steady breath on my eyes,
until he woke, and moved,

and lifted himself over me,
like the white light of morning gently arching,
nudging my pale skin to pink.
His mouth suddenly comes down
through the bright, blissful amnesias.
My hands are softer than what they were.
Body of this woman, he is making you for love.