think: how
at night they might
who could tell?
cross the board so carefully
and yet by a slight
shifting of the pieces
rearrange the game
beyond hope
or
standing at midnight
foursquare on your chest
how, think of it,
it would be, not the weight
but the stillness of the stance,
the beauty
of the face above your own
that takes your breath
or how
in the padded dawn
they seem
retractable,
those curved and pointed bones; how
that pulsing grip that almost breaks
the skin, that terrible
restraint, might come to seem
the best you can do
for now
for love.
Marjorie Stelmach