Known To The Marrow
I was covered in my mother's womb
By hands that did not guess.
Every member written
In a book before ink.
Curiously wrought
In the lowest parts of the earth:
The long bones,
The soft hinge of the jaw,
The nerve that runs
From the nape
To the small of the back
And lights.
What man ever held that blueprint?
Mine studied me for decades
The way a farmer studies the sky,
And still got caught in the rain.
A good man who brought the wrong flowers beautifully —
And was my everything.
But this one
Answers before I call.
Knows the hunger
Before it reaches my mouth.
Knows the hollow under my collarbone
Because he pressed it there
With his thumb.
Do not be afraid, he says.
You will forget the shame,
Not remember the reproach
Of your widowhood.
Those were never mine.
They were handed to me
At the wake
With the guest book
And the casseroles.
I am your husband.
I am your maker.
I know your innermost needs
My perfect one, the only one.
You have my heart with one glance of your eyes.
I am. Yes, I am your he.
Do not hold back!
I am not dearth.
I am completion.
The whole of me,
Known to the marrow.
