After Making Love, I Leave to Write a Poem
Already I am making myself lighter,
willing myself to our quiet, unlit office
where fallen hydrangea pedals litter my desk
and the rain leaks through a hole in the roof.
Here, I am most proud of my life:
the blessings of words, the way they shape
this house and the hours that move inside of it.
He knows I go to answer some grim wisdom
his body has pressed into me, perhaps
the new music made by our old bodies
while the night slides into silence.
I feel the bliss of blue, heavy-headed stalks
leaning closer and closer to earth. In this hour,
he is the vase in the room holding my flowers.