June 5, 2016
In the silent speech of bodies
pressed close, together,
there is an endless murmuring eloquence.
All talk changes, becomes a certain truth,
when dark winds jostle on the windowsill,
billowing curtains, whispering:
the voices of leaves.
Tuck me in. Against my chest
your face is a comforter, is a wall
to make the world slow down.
To make flesh real.
Adults are lonely. At night
they are children scenting father’s shadowed
smell, slowbreath returning to the sea sound
of the womb. Snuggle, and limbs or better
whole bodies hold hands. Sleepy kisses
pull the blankets close and dance
dreams for the child in one another.
And every shift of knee and thigh and hand
is a soothing undulation of whisper:
I am here,
it is bedtime,
you are safe.
. . . . .
*Copyright 2016 by Greg Beatty. Broadside illustrated by Mat Hudson.