My Eliza

DAVE, 1822

 

My Eliza—

sometimes

like a cat

she sneaks into the shack

late at night.

She rubs my back,

so tired

from bending over the wheel.

She kneads my tight muscle,

making it soft

like fresh-dug clay.

We breathe deep,

and for a while,

alone in our shack

away from the turning house

and the Big House,

we feel safe.