This is what I want you to miss,
this sprawl of woman across the bed.
The sun comes in slowly,
its slat shadows cast across
my shape like ruled paper,
and I can feel your hands holding me,
your eyes scanning. Notice
the brown bends of my hair
working their way across your pillow,
closed crescent eyes, mouth pink
as a cut and warming, ready to bloom.
Imagine the fires you would feel
if you buried your hands
deep enough, turned
my face toward yours
to wake me.

Ellyn Lichvar