Her skin shimmers
as she curls in her chair,
brushes back her hair
like a mermaid's,
and I, awake, see
lithe beauty mirrored.
She, aware, dims her lamp,
sighs, slips to the bed.
I draw covers over -
breathe her skin's fragrance,
kiss through spill of her hair.
She smiles for intimacy,
flexes her fingers
elegant and strong -
a ballerina's gesture
as if she'd drifted
from a danseur
to pirouette in dreams.
There, hideous monsters
claw close to her heart ...
pounding ... and I feel it
pulse out her fears.
I draw horror from her,
she, awake in my arms,
I, moist from her tears
break knots of nightmare
from hands unclenching in mine
and, warming her body,
draw her in
and there she sleeps
deep in our embrace -
sweet breath of love;
sweet calm of face;
a flower caught, falling.
It is a bitter thing
when the womb is dry,
to drift from sleep
into sweetness of love:
a bitter taste to swallow,
a difficult tomorrow.
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