My Husband
His shoulders slope.
They embody the worn out mountains
Of Appalachia with quiet, eternal hope,
and the coal covered fountains,
or streams that trickle and grope
the ground, rocking with laughter or tears.
His hands rest in a fold.
They are the basket woven by someone’s Grandma Gert,
and the patchwork quilt she sewed,
Or the stitches that healed the hurt
they’re ready to pray for reasons brought by the years.
His eyes shine.
They are the bright sun in the blue sky, and the stars at night.
Beneath the rock, downward, he goes,
but his eyes are brighter than his head light--
a little lamp that leads him. He knows
the noises of the deep, black, below-ground fears.
His muscle and bone, carry me to bed.
His skin and lips, make my cheeks turn red.
His body and soul are tangled with mine, until we’re dead.
