salve

let me tell you about that curve in your neck,
such perfect, safe harbor.
let me remember your beautiful rough hands,
fresh from a garden, still clinging to their last
memory of soil, and the salve of your skin
on my bare cheek, a shoulder blade, the small acreage
of my knees. It is easy to sit here, on the couch,
fall back into the pillows, their simple pliancy,
and know what it is to feel comfort.
But it is not the same as tenderness. How even
in our most disconsolate hour, you keep me from shipwreck.
Just a fingertip, just a whisper of your eyes.