Pleasures of the Flesh

Eric Nelson

He knows by his body
my fleshy body, deep-set eyes,
beard he yanks in handfuls.
My hands, having worked nothing
harder than a pencil,
are cushions to plump and cup,
ten paths to wander down.

Better than I he knows
my smell, my voice
soft as the feathers I brush
across his ears.
For my body his
body blooms every morning
as my face rises over his crib.

When he can name, say
father, the flesh made
word, words will fail.
As he fingers my cheeks, nose, lips,
he sighs so deeply
his whole body quivers.
And I, unable to express
myself, my body
long gone to my head, touch
his and whisper face, face.