She is all definition, the woman, her summer
Dress pleated with sweat.
In the firm prow of her belly, in the hold
Her cargo settles
In, as if to stay.
When it comes she will be flat
Which is herself again,
Another.
Outside dry grasses nudge each other as if
to say
Lie still again, then.
(All of the angles make sense to the wind.)
Everything here is animal is quick
To touch and soft to bite.
The man will die.
All of the eyes in back of him are women’s eyes.
For now, though, look
How tenderly she holds his head, magnificent,
immense,
Tipped like a beggar’s soft wool cap.
It’s hard for him.
It takes both of them to hold it.
What a field her mouth makes
On his. All of the eyes. All of the ways
He’s seen, women see.
by Michele Glazer