L Harris

She talks, and her hands are in flight, they light
on his hands, her soft face, the rosebud’s flame,
settling only for the waiter with the plates. Briefly,
brightly, she tucks the tablecloth at her neck. It’s a trick
he’s seen her do to make a child laugh. Now they are bowed
over the glow of steam, knees touching, just as at night
they lie, cupped under bedclothes, cotton tucked
to her chin, and between them, her sleeping hands fluttering.