For us there is deep under the skin
a kind of desire, not one we will
ever indulge, but one we will always
think of as a longing. A man, though
liberated, feels a welling in him
when his woman makes him a plate;
this is a kind of weakness, though
it is the language of strength.
Like you know the eyes of the fisherman,
standing at his doorway with the pipe
like a saxophone; the chillum
of triumph on the morning after
his wedding, taking a draw, with
the once girl, now woman, who wept
and bled dutifully, and fed him with
a smile, waving to the world from their
window, something like pride in her face;
this is familiar as the wounds men
have inflicted on women forever,
and in the knowing is the admission—
smoke fills the doorway, thick as a veil.