No. 7


Dawn Potter  



What will keep me
                out of this
                bad trouble?
At night, before dawn,
                I picture
                his finger,
reaching slowly
                across his kitchen
brushing gently,
                over my cold knuckles. 


Does his right hand desire me?
                I watch it now,
                neat, small,
a private hollow.
                pierces the bright
pages of his book. Words overflow:
                they splash
                our cheeks, our dark lashes
with gold. A glorious
                waste spills
                from our lips.


I dream of him
                as a bee accidentally
                dreams of roses.
His wife embraces me tenderly.
                She spreads my clean
                table with white
linen, wine murmurs in the glasses,
                a glim of candle-
shivers in the small breeze that
                lifts his sad eyes
                to mine.


My oven brings forth its brown
                loaves; butter
                glitters in the churn.
There is a home for goodness
                in my heart.
                Love feeds there,
like a bird, it scratches a nest of thorn
                and feathers.
                How quietly I wait for him
to come and lean against my ancient walls
                and sing this song that you
                also know so well.



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