In the morning when
the light falls across her bed,
let
it warm the hip that last night
refused to rest,
though it
ached.
Let it sooth
the nerve throbbing through her thigh
as she
bent then straightened herself,
filling the roller with white
paint,
lifting it again,
spreading it on the wall.
When I arose, I found the
dreary halls
of our house brightened
by the pain of her lifting
and
applying.
The walls were vertical fields
of whiteness where
before
there was nothing white.
Rooms once heavy with dust smelled
clean,
purified with bleach.
this was her gift to me.
Help me to morn properly
and put aside
the old bachelor life
of freedom and clutter.
Help me to say
goodnight early
to my drinking friends
and accept gladly the menial
chores
she sometimes asks of me,
this woman who sleeps now,
this
woman who gave no mercy
to her own aching body,
this woman who
brightened all she
touched. |
