abstract 1

By George Hammons

And our wrinkles are not flaws,
But they are instead echoes,
remembrances of the lives we have lived.

In this moment,
our bodies which have grown soft and round
(completely alien to the honed instruments
that once graced this house)
are now child-like.
These knees, hips, bellies and buttocks,
which have all endured a million genuflects
before the alter of troubled youth
now seem innocent
and your hands on my face are religion
and my lips on your lips are sacraments,

as I clearly recall all of those nights
when you just wanted me to hold you
and I laugh now,
because most nights,
that’s all I can muster
and you laugh,

because you seem to have caught your second wind
as I complain;
my head hurts, or my back is out,
or oooh it must have been something I ate.

But mercifully in this light
old ailments are often healed
so we giggle under the covers
like newly weds
and our conversations continue
long after the lovemaking
while we lie in each other’s arms,
like we never seemed to have time to do
when we were young.

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