Sunday

Published in edition four of Lot's Wife, August 2020

I am used to love

like a storm — 

conquering, all-consuming — 

but yours is

a Sunday morning —

coffee grains spilt

on marble counters,

the smell of garlic

from last night's pasta.

It is the day wrapped 

in satin sheets and kisses;

the window, the closest —

we’ll get to the sun today.

It is you 

holding me tightly

where I say 

it hurts the most —

feeling pages

of burnt poetry 

and bruises

slowly healing.

Put down your pen —

the chapter has

ended. 

I am arriving now

in this sanctuary 

made for two.

Feeling you

caress my scars,

filling their crevasses 

with red wine 

and country music.

Watching the sun 

go down —

my body merging 

with yours, 

knowing I’ll be

held close

as tomorrow wakes —

another Sunday morning 

with you.