I call your body home and listen
for all the rooms I’ll occupy,
the brag of my heels on marble,
a curtain’s steady notes,
tonguing the wall.
Quiet afternoons
when the postman passes
at three, sorting the day’s news.
The prayer I bend into you
finds a thief with her hand
in the silverware drawer.
The light divvying up
dust motes where red silk poppies
anchor a web by the door.
I fall into the greedy
snapping of breath in the well
which is your kiss.
And later, silence is a trophy
in every room, owning the days
with its crumpled sheets and
many, many questions.