A Bowl of Soup We Share

A Bowl of Soup We Share                                                                                              

Your hand, the size of mine,

we shake with introduction

deep as root of pine a century old.

The tongue knows its place

behind teeth.

The knee socket is safe

behind its white cap.

In your arms I realize ivy

the texture of felt and length of city blocks,

round windows that look over mahogany,

summer storms that ease into midnight.

Outside a young girl calls

for her dog, Bodi.

Love makes sound

in the pads of his feet

as he hurries to her.

Shimmering.

The moon floats

among the beans

in the bowl of soup we share.

Beneath the glass table

your feet entwine my ankle.

I look to your lap,

think below the napkin,

see my hand gentle against thigh,

an afternoon spent in linen.

Cool sheet pulled back,

stripes against your back.

Eternity in the blade of grass at three.

I ask that you never forget the navel

that rides your belly, the way I play

with bangs, smile from sharp eyes,

whisper at dawn a rock couldn’t be more soft.