Copyright © 2002 Bob Dornberg
Beads of light spill through blinds
onto your bare shoulder. Your face,
aging into softness, looks innocent
on the pillow. I still feel your heat,
relief from your touch. We've moved
closer again in sleep. Yesterday we walked
the hills, spring just starting to open
wild iris, lupine. I bought red
gladioli, a vase of flaming tongues.
We'll stay home tonight, alone
with each other. I'm surprised
how I've thrived after all, survived
family life like a woodland creature
who prospered in the sun: caught the art
of staying cool, going for days
on one deep drink. And all this time
you've been shedding layers,
like a madrone, tawny strips curling off,
down to the quick, satiny green,
sweet to burn, luxurious just to hold.
Copyright © 2002
Beverly Burch received an M.A. in Literature from Wake Forest. She is author of On Intimate Terms (U. of Illinois Press) and Other Women (Columbia U. Press). Her recent poetry appears in Poetry International, River City, Many Mountains Moving, and Slant.