"What`s wrong, love?" his thumb blesses the arch
beneath my eye, where the skin is thin
and collects tears like a baptismal.
I want his touch to burn
and steam these fears,
lift them to the air, the way my grandmother`s hands
smoothed soaked cotton under the iron,
hiss and spit, then heated curls-
in an arabesque above the crisping fabric.
"It`s nothing"- this is what we say
when the gravid weight of womanhood
presses hard the wisdom years have earned,
slapped the practiced patience
from the bosom, what can he know of this?
The secret pull of tides, within my blood?
The ebb and swell of transparencies,
helpless in the turn, the tumble-
at times incendiary, then the cold-
I want his touch to brand,
but it is gone.