There she was in this morning’s milk-light—
all luminous surface, just as she was painted,
clutching her son and her heart—blessed or burst—
perched on the tips of her fingers.
At that moment, in my want of her,
I could believe she would offer me both.
I might have lifted her skirt then and found her
sore feet, their two pink arches tender
and blushy, two roses.
But I was held by her eye—blank and rolling,
by the barnyard stink of her hair.