a half hour to sunset
the wet leaves from the morning trickled
into the kitchen window, washed in gold
and cast upon your dismal face
she is glorified, she is a woman
her days are stripped pale and there is sadness
in the ebb of her frame, the bend of her legs
she says, it's you she worries for
(and it is hard not to notice
the shape of her mouth)
you know all the ways her body folds
the hair that wanders from the neck
the way her back
arches into her clothes and the sheets, they too
freeze to her magnolia skin
she avoids your eyes, they are marbled
raw, reptilian, but her own
are colorless and feign indifference
she has always laughed
too often and too much
but in the last flickers of the day
you realize your favorite bit of her
is behind the knees
the slivers of flesh hidden from light
because they
like you
face inwards from the world
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