in the morning she watches him stretch–
a crescent moon of flesh,
hyphen of health,
a skin comma,
flat on the floor.
she searches his smooth form,
mesmerized
by the curves and softnesses,
eyes sliding as her fingertips wish to–
following his lines,
the continuity of verse;
words rolling like muscles under skin,
a long, undulating note.
she wishes suddenly
that he’d teach her how to smoke
a cigarette,
drink whiskey before breakfast–
no bananas, no oatmeal,
no low-fat milk–
teach her how that body can sustain
so many vices
and still glisten
with salt-skinned beauty.
