The Road to Belgium

He calls me wife.

His eyes are the color of the pheasant feather
that I use to mark my place in Leaves of Grass.

His back
is strong and perfect, sculpted…

My paintbrushes retire inadequate
now seeing they cannot produce beauty –envious.

Kind, a bit sad,
more lost than he realizes.

He laid his head in my lap
so tired and familiar.
I studied him and wondered,

Love him for his body or his heart?
Both seem more than deserving.

-incredible hands,
I felt like water bending, reacting—melting at his touch.

I fell asleep with his arm around me…
…I’d like to live that way.


Now, I think of the road to Belgium and dreams that line the path,
like crepes in the morning.

I’d fill out with pasta-fed fat in Italy
and he would call me wife.

(written for S.P. in 1995)