saturday morning after friday night:
smiles, remembers his words
how ripe she unpeels
yet his hands will not touch
he says fruit spoils too easily
& his taste buds savour night shades
and colours of her daylight
they speak similar;
share laughter
spoon feed each other
with what 'people' call friendship
& how movement climbs ladders of hope
he - a man's man
she - a woman on the curve
when they spin
words rise in her hands, to make simple prayers
lost voices unite in syncopated rhythm
tells him stories -
about the clicks in her spine
being older now,
there are places in her body that ache
didn't know where or when
or if they should
or can
place and unfold
where she used to play
with body & soul measured,
time dances to the musicality of her mind
back to when her feet were quixotic and new
he senses longing and the arch in her eyes
raises laughter like kaleidoscope shards
unlit and dark
light and spacious
touching the wideness of new nuances of layered love
he will not let her fall
till she can run & rise above
proud of her independence
the way grit falls through her hands
she can still spin men like tops
& hoola hoop hips that sway to the sound
of her Northern Soul
he lets her make music
and never complains - much
Adding your comment:
I love the whole thing…and yes, it is clear that this write comes from ‘feeling like a woman’. 
