Sunday, July 11, 2010



In those days I would wake during sleep's wheelturn
covered in darkness, with only your breathing near
as calendar and map. I fit myself along your back
tuck my insteps into your soles, splay my hand
over your belly, and match the rhythm of your in and out.
I want you to wake up and want me. My fingers
remember your rills, I promise to make up for lost dreams
I mean to go on with you, I will never tire of you
I will be proud to claim you among new people
I will find you funny without condescension, I will kiss you
at least once each day with full presence, I will keep you
as the other which defines me. I mean it to be you.

But I am a medieval troubadour with secret bubos
who does not sicken myself, yet leaves behind
weeping villages and songs no one wants to learn.

copyright Maggie Jochild, 10:48 a.m., 11 July 2010

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