Pleasures of the Flesh

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.