Poem a Day: 8

8. 

Husband Poem

                             for DTP (April 8, 1965 - )

Sometimes, not so very late at night,

I feel a bit sorry for the man lying next to me:

his face and body still fresh at 49,

his limbs well-formed, his paunch

(what paunch?) attractively slim,

his personality a warm shade of

green (a plant, I think, something vibrant

and growing, whose roots, even in winter,

stay wake, deep under snow) – and if he

flowered he’d explode, I’m sure, in September,

as the sun wanes and the afternoons shorten,

into a hundred golden blooms, hardy petals

thrumming with stored heat.

This man is sunlight to my moon, stem

to my dirt, platinum to my iron.  I’m cold,

my toes are ice, I’m already half asleep.

I store my passions where they’re hard

to find.  Ah, I should turn to him now, this

man I love, and fold him against me – draw

energy from his strong arms, merge (again)

his life with mine.  But I’m a disappointing wife.

Too often, I turn away. Turn off the light.

April 8, 2014