Wintering
A white day breaks through the dusky cloud
That was last night, when you lifted me
Onto the pillows and whispered marvelous things
Into my thighs. I don’t want to rise
From this bed or this life, your head heavy
Beside mine in the low space
Where everything that means something happens.
That first night, there was tinny music
Coming from the kitchen, and men
Masquerading as monks. You appeared
In the dark, two red horns among
Ink-colored curls. We shared a cup of rum.
Your mouth burned like a drunk’s
When you touched it to mine.
You led me down the narrow streets of that city.
Stone pavements. Iron gratings.
Geraniums. It was autumn.
People celebrated the return of their dead.
At the time I did not say, Please, God, let me
Know nothing else ever but this. I watched
For spaces between stones where I might trip.
White light bears down on the wordless sky.
I dreamt again of my mother.
I sat beside her, trying to forget the years of grief,
Trying to understand the puzzle of life in her body.
I speak another language, I told her. I love.
She watched without speaking, as if to say
Think of where I have been, what I’ve seen.
“Wintering” by Tracy K. Smith, from The Body’s Question
