Work of Grace

Slender fingers and modest palms
are perfect for a work of grace.
She dips and washes them in olive oil,
a family ritual to soften the touch.

Cold, colder than I,
brushed stainless, rigid flat,
four feet off the ground on a table
I levitate with toes pointed sideward,
naked, far past humility.

My smile is the shadow of memory.

She can fix that,
and the bruising too,
the missing hair,
dark circles, and
all that glass.

From photographs
and tender conversation,
she will express her art, her love
with rouge, lipstick, and foundation.

The cooler growls,
drowns out our intimacy;
she kicks it in the same dent.