morning, late April, New Orleans

when my mind opens up for the day,

and you're next to me,

I spoon you so I can say good-morning

to each part of you,

ask how you slept,

ask how your belly slept,

how your vulva and its hair slept,

how your iliac crest slept,

how your hamstring slept,

and your knee,

how is your thigh? did it relax?

we'll be walking again today, & how

is your calf?

my toes check on your arches,

are they lively?

my belly warms your lumbar,

my sternum opens the curtains

for your shoulder blades and rib-backs.

how did your fingers sleep?

did your breasts dream?

my hands want to know.

my kisses rouse your nape,

your shoulders,

your insubstantial acnestis,

your hair,

your ear -

how have you been?

I'm delighted you're here,

you and your meatball mole