Artemision Bronze, Athens, 2007.
Tattered Silk Robe
Would you consider it a lovely thing if every man
and woman would write about the life of a lover? I ask
as my husband's life careens on and around the oceans
dusk until dawn and spring to autumn before the icy
caps on the waves hurl inland to slap his shins --
he runs and skips and dances and makes love
until sunrise shows the pink of his ageing cheeks . . .
and so I write about him -- wouldn't you in my bare feet?
I sit naked on a log near my soul mate, pen in hand,
he wears a silk robe suffused with the oils of his body
and the energy of his prayers that do not cease except
to begin again praying for the many people he loves.
Then he looks out the window, walks on the sand
finding the piece of an oar, he lifts it above his head
and like the Artemision bronze he poses . . .
breathes deeply the salty air, and squints at the sunrise.
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