Steven Rood © 2003 All Rights Reserved
Steven Rood © 2003 All Rights Reserved
What is romantic, honestly
—for Shane
Outside
the first snow.
Fish hang alone
beneath a thin skin and
I am caught up in how I love you
more than the dog or cat
but maybe not
as much as woodsmoke.
Yes,
I see your back
just as I have seen your body
all these years
and it is a good body:
the ornament of your nose
your back’s solid plan to stand
what it had to.
You have moved
into accurate translation
which is to say I can finally
read you
which means we have been together awhile
long enough would be another way
to put it
but I suppose that depends
on the day.
How often
(like tonight) I have made this bed
go from small
to distant
but it is too cold to sleep
on the couch
so let me kiss you.
Like all unworthy I pray
tomorrow with the sun
you will wake
and knowing the taste
of my suffering
you will still
offer your mouth.
B.B. Johnson lives in Illinois. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in The Seattle Review, 5 a.m., The Chiron Review, Calyx, Ascent and others.
