Old Sweethearts

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.

Beverly Burch
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.