My children will wonder, some day when I have them,
why I gave up the glories of city life, why I chose
to labour and toil. They will ask me
“mais pourquoi as-tu abandonné le rêve?”

“Дечица мои,” I will answer, “It was not mine."

If you should be lost
the police report
will ask me
to describe you.

I will say, “He is
the one with the gaze
that could sink a ship
and the laugh
that could bring it to life again.”

God granted grace,
my soul expressed in my hands.

Fingers stroking gently,
and pressing firmly,
in familiar patterns
on a familiar body
(all bodies are familiar,
though some release gasps,
and sing, and wheeze
on different keys)

When the silence in the aftermath settles,
our bodies still vibrating,
a question lingers in the air:

Why do we close our eyes
when we feel the most?