Forty Three Years Together
When we met,
my love’s hands were
as small and soft as mine.
Across a kitchen table we
pressed them palm to palm
There’s a black smudgy print on
the kitchen door now,
made when he was fixing the lock.
A good housewife would wash it off,
but I don’t. I like to press my
still-small hand into his, huge now
from years in the carpentry trade.
LOST LOVED ONE
The night unwinds you like a
knotted ball of wool.
I sit up, knitting you into
mittens and mufflers to warm me.
The day rolls you back into
the same tangled skein and
un-ravels all my handiwork.