The doctor's lap is lean
and his hip bones under
my thighs push them wide
apart and leave bruises
like ripe plums
on my skin. His hands
on my waist are as cold
as two peaches in an icebox,
a thousand stolen breakfasts,
a thousand thoughtful apologies,

this is just to say:

My body is not so white
as it is warm and growing
pink and purple above
these mountains of Paterson,
high and rounded, the form of a man
reaching America and finding it
a new language, a man,
common and strong, bracing himself
against the chemical skies
of North Jersey, my fingers,
like rivers, filling in the folds.

So much depends, Doctor Williams,
on this moment:

on the sweat gleaming between us
like your relentless spring storm-
so much to say on the subject
of its rain on the shutters,
shuddering like our breath
and, similiarly, endless.

It is the woman in me
that makes this love
and acknowledges it, the man
that makes it loud;
the cool steel of your stethoscope
on my wrist is the sound I listen for:

and I hear it everywhere.

08/07/2005

Author's Note: love poem for William Carlos Williams - a la writing.com slam. (affectionately, for AKB)

Posted on 08/08/2005
Copyright © 2024 Christina Gleason