Friday, July 1, 2011

marriage poem #1

When the purpleblack night grows soft,
blends its own sweet Billie Holliday tune
with the dark morning I shed my shirt,
my pants, slide in naked next to you
and feel the sweet soft ache
in my shoulders, in my legs, my chest.
I touch your tickling hand,
fingers sprawled open on the bed,
limp with sleep yet opening, closing,
the bitten nails tiny,
your breaths regular with a quiet cat-snore.
When I wake in the later morning
you will be on my chest there, there
in the place you love to set your head,
and perhaps, because we are married now,
the air will collapse or be in a state of collapse
under the weight of my many night-time farts,
and things won't get too terribly sappy.
But you will still love me, even then.
With morose laughter, at times, and moaning
at my morning murmurs and the awful
smell. Pulling the sheets up once more,
twice more, I may say, will say,
Welcome to marriage love. Welcome.

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