It was nearly an hour later
when you rolled away from me
drowsy with heat,
with exertion. My arm,
caught under you, lost
until you moved. My veins
had turned to broken green bottles
as the blood remembered its place.
I felt it return, not from the heart,
but from the center, the Mesopotamia
of life. My inner thighs, flesh as sunned
tomatoes, lay an easy entrance
to a teeming, yet stagnant delta. Still,
deeper, this is from where life returned.
I lowered my arm down the side of the bed
and squeezed my eyes against the pain
while you slept.