Married Love, by Liz Rosenberg

The trees are uncurling their first
green messages: Spring, and some man
lets his arm brush my arm in a darkened
theater. Faint-headed, I fight the throb.
Later I dream
the gas attendant puts a cool hand
on my breast, asking a question.
Slowly I rise through the surface of the dream,
Brushing his hand & my own heat away.

Young, I burned to marry. Married,
the smolder goes on underground;
clutching at weeds, writhing everywhere.
I’m trying to talk to a friend on burning
issues, flaming from the feet up,
drinking in his breath, touching his wrist.
I want to grab the pretty woman
on the street, seize the falcon
by its neck, beat my way into whistling steam.

I turn to you in the dark, oh husband,
watching your lit breath circle the pillow.
Then you turn to me, throwing first one limb
and then another over me, in the easy brotherly lust of
marriage. I cling to you
as if I were a burning ship and you
could save me, as if I won’t go sliding down beneath you
soon; as if our lives are made of rise and fall, and we could
ride this out forever, with longing’s thunder rolling heavy in our arms.