Sunday Morning
0306.2010

You have this ritual, Sunday morning.

You wake quiet to water dead skin and rinse away scales.
You’re tall and lithe, one of a pair slipping down the hallway,
Wearing long legs, ivory skin, and coughing lungs -
The cough into the bathroom with your face attached.

But when out of reverence for me you’re a soft parade,
Leaving my body to restore itself, its sex moist, knees crumpled,
Hair slick and a little wet as you go from used me,
I always know with eyes closed.

Hours later, I’ll rise and dress, the floor board singing to my feet,
Then an old woman down the stairs with creaking spine,
Palm rasping the banister, trying to wake my breath –

And here is where I find my statue,
One leg crossed over the other, like two snakes perverse,
Sipping tea while looking the quintessential English schoolteacher.

We spend morning reading, drinking tea, and eating pastry.
We make love sometimes.
You leave full, satisfied on silence and me left shaking.

Marni©