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The Mother of the Bride Sleeps In
by Wayne Lee

I could stay with you all day
like this,
your head on my shoulder,
your thigh against my thigh,
our breath rising and falling
together
as we float in and out of sleep,
not getting up to eat,
to bathe,
to write,

the way we hope our eldest slept
last night
with her groom
in the upstairs room
of his grandparents' farmhouse,
new gold bands on their fingers
as they embraced for the first time
as husband and wife,
vowing to spend their lives
like that,
side by side
on a feather bed.

This is the way we live,
day and night,
drifting in and out of dreams,
now awake,
now waking somewhere else,
some other time,
always in each other's arms.

Now you lie on your back,
arms behind your head.
I rest my lips against your neck,
my thigh against your thigh,
my breathing matching yours,
each of us content,
like this.

I imagine that other couple,
those honeymooners,
outside in the rain,
driving past the factories and farms
on the way to their second day
and night together
as husband and wife,
bound like trees in soil,
like stones and moss,
shadows and light,
free as stars
in their shining,
falling,
rising,
falling again,
entwined.
Like this.







 


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