Jonathan Harris


The day behind her
curled in the glow
of the bedside lamp
I don’t disturb this
movement toward sleep.
It’s how I’ll go too
after those quiet hands
leaf through the book
after her chin goes under
her eyes flutter closed.
What would I say anyway?
Why turn back?
The perfume of poetry
measures her breathing
the pulse in her neck.
I hold her lovely face
up to my eyes
and come level with a river
that turns and eddies
whispering: woman,
not man, was here first.




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