I think it's called
contentment. The absence
of Drama. What
my hands know, chilled,
as they reach
for your warm
solid flesh. That hunger
will be met. That heat
is present.
Or wisdom.
How tall grasses channel
wind, root to tip, flatten
to rain, sharpen dry
to sun, do not dread
withering. this ammused
curiosity: What
comes next? this certainty
We will be equal to it.
Perhaps it's
happiness. river
sourced in me that
flows for you, come
boulders, flotsam, floodplains
drought, come new
tributaries. The water
runs.
I name it
wonder. Mornings of your
sleep-child profile, hunched
man-shoulders, tenderness
spins a blanket, gossamer gray,
out of my navel to wrapyou,
corners of my mouth
reach up and out like wings.
And, at last, I name it
gratitude. For confident hunger
of tall grasses
along river that knows
its source, for rain-soft
blankets I inhale
into my navel, for delight
of not knowing what comes
or why, but verything
shifts like grass, like water
and still my hands
reach for the brazier
of you, coals at centre
tumbled red, I think
it's called
love.
For Chris, by Shailja Patel
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