Time forgets us when
you take to a pillow
on the floor, your mahogany
shoulders (the broadest thing
about you), cinched by my knees
and soft lower thighs.
Your face, a fistful of stone, cracks
open and the geode of you grows
bright scattering calcite light
across the room.
My hands, knuckle deep
in your hair, coax out the knots
left from too-small plaits
planted by another woman’s hands,
and you don’t even wince.
Instead you allow a sigh,
just one, to unwind its way slow
from your solar plexus—it rises
but hangs—low fog drifting
across the lonely holler
of my living room floor.