Friday, March 25, 2016


                         - for james

The lamplight in the evening is soft like a piano can be,
or moth wings, or icing on a cake, desirous like that, sweet.
I go to it, of course, even if I am sitting in a chair
under a blanket by the window, or coming into the room
through the portal by the stairs, the light yellow
like the hope of a flower, warm like a cup of tea,
constant like a mother. It shines confidently in a circle,
reaching through the blankets of the room with alluring fingers, 
its hands without rings, itself a halo, a pledge, a golden promise.
My husband is like this, I think, like the light going out 
from the origin, his mind going out like a mariner to the sea, 
his flesh an earthly penumbra through which to seek. 
My husband is like this, this gentle minaret of seeing, 
this central place from which my dim-sighted being 
can begin, again and again, repeatedly.