The House And Her Carpenter

Her mind flutters there in those
Secret rafters just above her eyes—
The roof leaks when she cries,
But seldom does, for her man is
A carpenter, a good one, and goes
About fixing her using just his
Hands and tongue, so the windows
Of her eyes fill up on him, and
Her halls swell with the handcrafted
Furnishings he places there
As he turns on that warm light inside
Her— a glowing feline soul whose
Purrs echo up from the basement
As the warm laundry churns in
The places he reaches for her along
The pinked ridgelines of her abdomen
He works in significant ways inside
Her, mending, staying there and turning her
Name into a prayer he says over and
Over as he takes hungry bites
Of the pie she serves him,
The kitchen table her lips and tongue,
Both of them fondling upon a grassy foundation
She rolling about on the quarter acre bed
Crying his name.

by Robert Rorabeck

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