I searched his palms
for a sign. There was none.

I felt his side
for a wound. It was smooth.

Yet, he is here.
My wait is over.

His face is an icon
begging my kisses. Through the night,

I will sing his praises and call
him, my lord.


I love her most
in that rumpled state
just off the pillow
and half asleep

hair tousled
face unmade
going down on me
as I wake.