There's no question -- she is beneath him.
Flat on her back, licking her lips,
swimming in sheets, she is seemingly
satisfied. For miles, no one is near. Quiet,
the hours. They could be under water.
Blue on white, she buries herself
under blankets. Always, she’s on time
to meet him. True, she's always drop
dead, carrying limes. Mornings, door
service, it seems that he couldn’t live
without her. Nights, he stacks trays,
unsure how long she will last. No rain --
each dawn glows in the vacation room.
Surely, hiding will make her and break her
into the love of his life. A vision, she sleeps
cold now. But shouldn't her middle hold
less curve. Shouldn't the cut cheek slide into
the chin, stabbing the jawline. And the side
of her face -- shouldn't it hold more lines,
showing the age, the lost years etched
into another shade of eye. When will the pupil
become larger, the black giving up to a fierce,
traveling light. And when she turns, tosses,
rolls over, why doesn't her tired breathing
deepen, like the bravest at rest, like horses.
C.A. MacConnell
