A rose-rich candle breathes its
scent to our house, the white
folded linens, hold our history,
and the palest blanket of snow
has fallen, white-blue,
like typing paper. Thin crepe
of my skin, luminous and scented
as a deep-throated jasmine, your bare
feet as you cross the rich oriental, cup of scented tea,
bergamot and gleaming. Fresh-scrubbed,
shower-damp are we; The dress, the suit,
laid out, matte black, shoes patent leather, the arc
of my seams now straight. The small, perfect
button of garter I snap into place,
and smudge soft azalea across bee-sting
lips, the smooth stroke of the brush
across honey-colored hair, gently pinned
in hasty bun, I anoint each beating pulse
with precious liquid; chypre from the discreet
black bottle, the powdery scent that permeates my
every thing. “Will you get my zip?”
eyebrows raised, a Please, and you oblige,
then hook the fine garnet necklace,
a gift from years past, given
on a raw Autumn day, which you brought
while I waited on the old oak sleigh-
bed, beneath the sloped attic ceiling, I wore
nothing but a sheet and I listened
to the dulcet sounds of children in the schoolyard
nearby, as the sun slipped, gentle, and gave way
to the night, as you re-appeared, then hooked
the clasp about my neck and each garnet
burned with promise and I gave myself to you, again
and again and again, as the shop-keepers drew
closed their heavy gates, as we were opening up,
so at peace, I rested my head on the coiled
hairs of your lap, the gold filament laced
with the spice of your skin, warming
my cheek as I fingered each garnet in turn,
silently repeating simple prayer on each stone,
That every promise remain true, that it always be you.