We slept through the lunar eclipse
with the curtains closed and the television humming
in the motel six, your mouth pressed
to my shoulder; you know, if it had come too close,
too soon, the debris that formed the moon
would have remained disparate, a floating
ring of luminous grains without the strength
to pull the earth's tides. But maybe I've read
you wrong. You like heights, you say of the scaffolding
I'd seen shivering under you, your hands steady with nail-
gun, lumber strip. You sleep so heavily,
but that first night you seemed to hear me worrying
over the snow on the television. Without turning,
you said, What is your middle
name? When are you coming back? I want to believe
that today when the saw's spinning hum wanes
for even a few minutes you will appear again in the dark
tunnel of my stairwell, asking for an apple, the shine
of your shoulders gritted with particles, your warm mouth
a press of dust.
appeared in Poet Lore