Last night, in the midst of sleep,
I sensed someone in my room.
I am quite sure they took something of mine,
perhaps the piece of moon I had captured
from my ten-'o-clock starings out the window.
I wanted to leap up and catch them, but
felt bound to my bed.

Today we had a cowboy singer downstairs
and hats were passed out - straw and leather,
reminding me Arbor Farm
when I was a little girl, how the smell
of hay and dung infiltrated
my nose as Thomas McDaniel first
kissed me.

Maybe they were trying to steal the hay,
my kiss, Thomas's crooked smile,
the pile of hay we sat upon.
Maybe they trired to steal the moment I looked
out into the congregation and saw Thomas sitting
there, hat in hand. My gaze broken by
Fred pulling my chin toward him into
our first maritial kiss.

Sometimes I feel wind on my lips, wind
in the shape of lips, and I'm reminded
of my babies, of Fred, of Mother's last
dying kiss. My great-grandbabies come
in and give me kisses now and they smell like
new grass and clay. I pray no one steals them away.

03/04/2006

Posted on 03/05/2006
Copyright © 2024 Lisa Marie Brodsky