Sent to you by moya via Google Reader:
i wrap my hand around her
skinny denim thigh
preparing myself for what will
today i notice how loud both our lungs
our breathing has a pattern of its own,
new partners in a familiar dance
we are always in experiment
mixing new techniques with old maneuvers
we could do this with eyes closed. bodies pressed against each other. hands waiting patiently in case guidance is needed. but dislocated hips, sore muscles and occasional miscalculations of space-body-fatigue-location make it otherwise. each day is a detailed study of her swing of arm, my shift in weight, any step taken out of order. there is always a constant desire to improve our performance.
she goes back to pushing down & i press my arm even harder against her flesh. this old trunk throws out its branches, reaching for any kind of balance
she notices my uneasiness and pulls me into her
my face brushed up against her chest, i see again the fresh scar
when will she trust she doesn't have to cover?
surely she sees all of mine.
we continue to wrestle
pelvis fighting cotton, spine confronting buckle, body resisting the assimilation that comes with wearing clothes. arms join forces while legs watch idly by, refusing to offer up help or take sides
finally we are victorious and i am dressed,
ready for the day. back in my chair i thank her,
curious if she too sees how poetic our caregiving
routines can be