In one, she plucks him from the earth like a radish,
Brushes wet dirt from his grin,
And lifts his mouth to her breast.
In another, twice her size, he takes her in two hands
And lifts her over head for kisses.
Last night, I woke and she was by the window.
A bare tree bent, branches reaching,
As if it want to touch her face through the glass.
She turned and smiled.
He nightgown glowed, silver.
My wife is the moon, I thought.
When I asked here what was out there, she answered,
I was. I was beautiful.
Cortland Review, November 2000