The woman he marries is a small but wiry.
And this is as far as the book ever
goes in the direction of a bedroom scene.
Though Martha is small, I have yet
to have to shake the sheet to find or rouse her.
Sometimes, on an icy Saturday morning,
deliberately I calm her animation.
At such a time, I view my hand as anvil.
And leaving it poised gently on her breasts,
I slip away to do the chores.
And sometimes, sure enough, I reappear
to find the anvil holding with Martha's form
beneath it, warm as cow flanks.
And oh, these are the truly sweet, the sacred times.
The anvil gone, the boys asleep, the smell of milk,
and breath, and chill against my woman.