another new poem

BECAUSE I DON'T ALWAYS KNOW WHY I LOVE YOU, BUT I ALWAYS KNOW WHY I STAY

 

 

I.

 

You had asked to feel

the slow kick

of our child in me

like hooves on dirt

to sleep again beside me

 

some strange new gleam

to your face.

 

 

II.

 

A full foot taller than me, your shins

ankles and toes hang

over the edge of the bed. Even asleep

you are a man Caravaggio

would have loved, feet breaking through

the frame of the bedsheets.

 

Dirt stains the soles

of your feet, leaves pentimenti

every place you've been.

Like a rough sketch, a first draft.

 

 

III.

 

I took the Caravaggio book

from the shelf

to show you

The Conversion of St. Paul.

It took him two attempts

to get it

right:

    

thrown from horse

smooth on his back

arms wide

eyes closed against the light

the horse looking down at him

foreleg paused mid-trot:

 

because in this second version

Paul did not cover his eyes

or cower.