O Bod
you cringe when I say you are beautiful.
yeah sure, you mumble, eyes downturned,
rolling, like it pains you to look at me
looking at you.
even in the afterglow of lovemaking,
in the dark no less!
you swiftly pull the sheet to your chin
to step back inside yourself, like a thick, down coat.
but each morning, with the merciful whisper of dawn,
I am finally free to look at you unchallenged,
your familiar, naked body unfolded, like a map,
and what I see are
not the scars of your childhood and childbearing,
not the birthmarks and blemishes of your skin,
not the graying of your hair,
not even the weight of all my burdens upon you,
but the ornate topography of our lives,
stamps on our passport that say marriage, mortgage, minivan,
postcards filling the naked scrapbook of our adolescence,
souvenirs that will connect us when nothing else can
like the drowsy ringlets on your forehead,
your lips blowing a dandelion,
your arms in sleepy self-embrace,
or prayer.
as I creep toward the shower, leaving you
to your dreams of a leaner, younger, more fashionable you,
I pray you will one day see the beauty in your patina,
one day appreciate, as I do,
that great renaissance mapmakers cannot compete
with the simple shadows of the window blinds
tattooed in my memory
by the orange ink of dawn.