He kneels on the rumpled bed
by Gail
He kneels on the rumpled bed
stroking color on my long toes,
seen, not felt, while my legs and feet
twitch with the strain
of self-imposed restraint.
His intentness on this new task
jabs my jaded heart.
He blows on the nails to dry them,
cradles the other foot and paints slowly.
I lie filled with the wait for the next thing,
the path he will kiss on my legs.
Nothing will happen to wake
the old ghosts in their graves;
their finger bones will not twitch
with memories of touching younger me.
These cries will be wild and joyous.
