Love’s Rituals

Sunday Morning

0306.2010

You have this ritual.

Sunday morning.

You wake quiet,

to water dead skin

and rinse away scales.

You’re tall and lithe—

one of a pair

slipping down the hallway,

wearing long legs,

ivory skin,

and coughing lungs—

the cough enters the bathroom,

your face still attached.

But when you move,

out of reverence for me,

you become a soft parade—

leaving my body

to restore itself,

its sex still moist,

knees crumpled,

hair slick and a little wet,

as you go

from used me.

And even with eyes closed,

I always know.

Hours later,

I’ll rise and dress,

the floorboards

singing to my feet.

Then down the stairs—

an old woman

with a creaking spine,

palm rasping the banister,

trying to wake

what’s left of my breath.

And here is where I find you—

my statue:

one leg crossed over the other,

like two snakes,

perverse and regal,

sipping tea,

looking the part

of the English schoolteacher.

We spend the morning

reading,

drinking tea,

eating pastry.

Sometimes

we make love.

Then you leave—

full,

satisfied on silence,

and me

left shaking.

m.c.f.