The minutiae of their morning
Ray Lamontagne
and her boy’s long leg wrapped over hers.
It’s ‘let it be me’
and the pedantic sound of the black maids in the hall.
The first time:
He is uncertain tentative tender
No words, save the irreverent “ohgod, ohgod, ohgod”
gasped into the nape of her neck.
The second time:
He is forceful assured strong
A flurry of demands low, “look at me, look, please”
eyes unfastened slow like the buttons to her blouse.
He is longing just to climb inside
to slip in from behind
[sociallocker id=”5246″]into Tuesday’s pallor,
into her skin, his skin, forever wanting
into the essential spaces they make
to forego the counterfeit faces people places
witness to the softest wisp of grace
they forsake.
She will see him approach ecstasy
and still she thinks
he always returns to me.[/sociallocker]
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