So she prays for a prankster

The Marriage Bed

I lie on his chest—
I breathe up
for good rhythm is necessary for trying physical tasks
I breathe down—
A finger's stretch away from his nightdrawer
(and perfume samples, buttons, scrap paper, my love notes, our junk),
I breathe in
I breathe out.

This good man's chest—
I lie here as he wants me, slight, root difference from he lets me.
My husband, the cobber of seed.
Goofily, he dances, calling the rain when I ask for rain.
It hits my beds, grows my collective garden—
Along with the steady disappearance of house trinkets, I think
This man will make an excellent father.

He doesn't let on seeing the footpath the next morning
or the mudstreaks at the foot of the bed;
Ignoring that the ranunculus sprout tin foil rings
and how the hyacinth push up small ceramic birds,
my husband holds back nothing of me.
It is this, one day, I hope to actually see.

While we breathe together in the mornings,
I calendar out the librations of the moon for night planting.
I temper the ground with surprises
to not forget made promises.
The fern tickle my feet as I slide into their cover.
It was foolish of me to come.
I will miss him forever when I go.


So this is a 2nd revision. I could have made it worse. I just kept seeing all these correlations in what I wanted to say and things I've been trying to say. Next subject up: Animal Husbandry. There's just too much to say here. Maybe I said too much. But for now, I kinda like it.