Last night I forgot to lower the shade.
Caught in morning’s snare of light
I turn towards you.

Between ranges of bone I see your belly
smooth sloped, concave, the color
of porridge left to congeal.

On the table of your ribs, two breasts
gone pudding soft, a tired
slope to each side.

My rattle-boned breath pierces
the quiet before the first birdcall.
Still you sleep on.

I wait for you to wake, for the old
sharp hunger to stir, before we
broke apart, before time

disjointed our taut bodies. Mornings
then were our delight. Rising, my hand
hovers, a bird of prey above

the cleft of your thighs, falls
short of its mark, unfettered
yet unfed.

Dorty Nowak lives in Paris and Berkeley, where
she writes frequently about multicultural issues.
She is the co-founder of Duologues, an ongoing
project involving poets and visual artists from
around the world.
by Dorty Nowak