How she loves him
She gently strokes his work worn brow
He calls and she comes
He asks and she gives
Her gaze intuits his desire
For his comfort she draws him in
to her warm and beating breast.
How he loves her
Ivory tower his alone
Porcelain delicate, smooth as glass
A treasure fought for
A prize attained
He sets her high
Atop his cluttered trophy shelf.
A man may have the wife of the first stanza and yet never realize the gift and never give her the honor she is due. He may imagine a porcelain prize, his idol on a shelf. She is not a real woman. She is not warm, but cold as glass. Her image blocks his view of the real woman stroking his brow. To him glass is the wife he believes he deserves. This warm woman is the whore he uses.
A woman too may have her masculine prize on the shelf and not see the gift in her arms.
Hollow skeleton, empty arms,
Cold pillow by my head;
Hot my face, – wet my tears, speak
Groanings deep from love-wrenched soul;
Pounding heart and anguished grimace;
Hope abandoned leaves love’s torture.
Fourteen years my soul has wrestled,
Watched another take my place,
Give him what my soul does long to,
Fill his comfort, soothe his needs,
Even given what I cannot;
His son suckled at her breast.
What was that? Someone believes it?
He said I would have my joy?
Can I hope when hope has faltered;
Can I give what died in me?
Furrowed brow and trembling torso;
Can I offer heart and soul?
Faith takes over where hope faltered.
I believe, now let it be.
Once again I’ll hold him to me.
Each our wells pour passion’s torrent
Flowing deep until, all given,
Lie we one, both soul and body.
From this spring comes laughter reigning.
Life from death brings life again.
Warmth and softness snuggle to me,
Fingers warm his tiny grip.
Here I hold what could not happen,
Son of Laughter at my breast.