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The woman he marries
is a small but wiry.

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And this is as far
as the book ever

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goes in the direction
of a bedroom scene.

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Though Martha is
small, I have yet

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to have to shake the sheet
to find or rouse her.

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Sometimes, on an icy
Saturday morning,

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deliberately I
calm her animation.

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At such a time, I
view my hand as anvil.

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And leaving it poised
gently on her breasts,

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I slip away to do the chores.

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And sometimes, sure
enough, I reappear

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to find the anvil holding
with Martha's form

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beneath it, warm as cow flanks.

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And oh, these are the truly
sweet, the sacred times.

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The anvil gone, the boys
asleep, the smell of milk,

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and breath, and chill
against my woman.

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