Each Night
Before Ama calls me to write
I am my wife's
And lay her to bed
Braiding our legs
Which have learned
In seven years
How to thread together
Like fingers
Of the supplicant hand.
Her arm possesses my chest
And nods with the rest
Holding her own
And dozing in love
To those gentle dreams
As I count her breathes
Searching the ceiling
Wondering my overfull mind.
I betray her clasp
For a few needed hours
And fall into Ama
Threading my works
Skein of ink, literary pulse
I am Sophia's child
And friend of the Muse
Till dreams darken my eyes
And I gratefully lie
Beside my hushed bride
When writing is done.
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