wash

The hour is late and the house dark

and I lie on the pillow listening

to the spin of the washing machine, day’s last load,

the splash of the dishwasher too, after the feast,

And his hand, that one that fed the stock today,

Shoveled the dung, brought in the eggs,

That washed her smeared face after the dinner and the ice cream,

it finds my waist under the sheets and his strength pulls me

into his skin and his warmth and his covenant,

and I lie in the dark,

awash in a soundless grace.

Photos: His working hands....
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