Always when I rise to go, your eyes blaze out from a face gone wickedly pale. Edna St. Vincent Millay
They lay beside each other in bed.
She is sleeping.
He is awake.
She always falls asleep before he does.
The sound of her breathing calms him.
It pushes the ghosts out from his rooms.
With the backs
of his fingers he rubs her elbow, and listens.
He wishes to pluck her heart
like an eyelash or a flower
from her chest
and make an infinite map out of it.
She knows he must use his hands to make things.
His hands are restless things.
He talks with them, like blind birds.
He uses them to hold her.
In the morning, he will make tea with them.
They will drink from the same cup.
This looks a lot like the barn I used as an art studio post-college upon return to Ohio. I had my studio space and then, by the open doors overlooking a creek, we’d set up an old iron bed and would lug down matresses out there when well, when one of us had a gentleman caller. Open barn, creek, candles, and a big old feather bed…