We lie here together, nothing to see
really but our ceiling, a texture May
Swenson called the sea…of tranquility…
in her poem “Your Room.” Belovéd, say
with your fingertips sailing slow across
my chest how you’ll stay until dawn, ever
staying even when gone. We share no loss
of words; prefer silence for its power.
In this muted meditation I now
recall my first sight of you: smiling, still
as a photograph, studying Renoir’s
“Nude in the Sun,” your shoulders draped with quill-
skinned bomber jacket (Christmas present from
your ex), brash butt pressed against a Bontemps.
Roger Armbrust
January 11, 2010
