BETWEEN OUR LOVE
The broken glass makes her fingers bleed, but she picks up the pieces so the kids won’t cut their bare feet anyway. She tip toes around the jags and juts like she’s stepping stone to stone over a creek, ripples made of razors and splashes becoming slashes, but she looks so beautiful doing it. She makes it seem as if brokenness is a natural fact of motherhood, perhaps it is.
I watch from a kitchen chair and decide that I like the way her long neck moves when she turns to find the broom. It’s a neck I can see me kissing for a long time, a neck I will love with the palms of my hands, a neck I would miss if ever she left me.
I wonder why I don’t make love to this woman more often. She winks at me and I know that something sweet and strong is going to happen later tonight. I smile back at her and the kids stand at the door waiting to cross the kitchen, between our love.
The Dog of the Marriage