womanhood, says the television
is ideally slim and shaved, yet you
are covered in hairs I touch and love,
I with curves and stretch marks you
touch and love,
making us, I believe, a danger to
society at large.
promise me you'll never pick up a razor
or pluck those lush brows that signal
your moods.
in return I will look in the mirror and
try to see
what you perceive that so unaccountably
makes you deem
my crinkled soul adequately housed
and your glorious tiny bitten-down
fingers complemented
in my hands, or as I bring them to
chapped uncolored lips.
I am a compassionate person, I hope,
but I wonder more
with each day how blind and deaf and
without taste the world
has been that hordes do not jostle and
cajole
for your every touch and word.
to make you want is the greatest gift
I have been given, to make me content
is a miracle on your part, your voice
in Russian songs
where we must not forget the dual
meaning of dear,
and your hushed Hebrew prayer for my
sorrows
makes me whisper the Thai suteerak,
suteerak,
(most beloved of
mine)
for though "dear"
also means "expensive"
you are worth my
fortune and fear.
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