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That first winter in the middle
of the night you could not sleep
and woke me because the caress
of my unconscious breath across
your outflung knuckle roused you.
I opened my eyes to your cheek
cradled on my thigh.
You bear
the same name and wear
the same face, man who pretends
deep breathing gusty sleep
beside me as vainly I rub
my breasts against your back
curved away like the shell of a turtle.
by
Marge Piercy
