Shimmer

five love poems about rivers, sweat, sleep, quilts, and pan sheet cooking

Photo by Jonas Gerg on Unsplash

---

Flow


many rivers begin
with one spring—
with water emerging
from the earth—
water ascending 
from a subterranean 
source—I love you
with this geological 
force—love ascending
from a subterranean
source—love emerging
from the earth—
love transforming
that one spring where
you and I begin—
where we shimmer
and become river





Good Sweat


O, this glorious
tangle of limbs—
dear one, I exalt
the taste of salt
on your skin





Eight Hours


we sleep in separate 
beds because I nightmare
too dramatically—
we sleep in separate
beds because my insomnia
sometimes won't let me
sleep—we sleep in separate 
beds in separate rooms
because I've been known
to crouch on the mattress 
while still asleep and scoop
water with my hands
from an ocean that exists
only in my head—
we sleep in separate 
beds because she sleeps
more soundly by herself—
we sleep in separate
beds because I'm more
likely to sleep well when
I know that she's sleeping
well—we sleep in separate
beds because we love
each other enough to accept
that our marital bed is
often occupied by only
one of us—but on certain 
nights when I can't sleep,
I walk quietly upstairs
and listen to her breathe
while she slumbers—
I ache—I ache—I ache—
I wish that I could lay
my head upon her breast
and weep—I wish
that my exhausted loneliness
would help me sleep





The Age We Live In


Sweetheart, we'll soon
be elders— but I'll do
my best to remain
your shelter—I'll wrap
you in your favorite 
quilt—I'll step between
you and winter's chill—
I'll hold your fragile hand
with my fragile hand
as we travel together
into the hinterland





Ambition 


I'm clumsy when I slice
the onions, carrots,
tomatoes, broccoli,
and bell peppers—I wish
that I was better at this—
the pieces might be
too varied in size
and shape to cook
evenly—but then
my dear wife smiles
and gently teases me
about my lack of knife
skills—then she says
it's okay—it's close
enough—then I smile,
pour the veggies into
a bowl and mix them
with various spices
and olive oil—then
I spread the veggies
in one even layer
on the sheet pan—then
I wrestle the salmon
fillets from the package
and nestle them among
the onions, carrots,
tomatoes, broccoli,
and bell peppers—I wish
that I was better at this—
then I slide the sheet pan
into the preheated oven
and continually resist
the minute-by-minute urge
to open the door and check
if the salmon and veggies
are cooking properly—
patience, ah, patience 
is also a skill—then after
the proper amount
of cooking time, I pull
the food from the oven
and present it to my wife
for a taste test—she bites
slices of the onions,
carrots, tomatoes, broccoli,
and bell peppers—I wish
that I was better at this—
she says the veggies
are perfectly tender—
I ask her if the salmon
tastes like Jesus and she
shakes her head
at my little blasphemy—
but, wait, I say, Jesus
is supposed to return
just like the salmon
always returns upriver
to the place where
they spawned—and isn't
Jesus also tender, I add—
my wife smiles—
she's accustomed 
to my improvised
poems—then she sits
at the table while 
I fill her plate with salmon,
onions, carrots, tomatoes,
broccoli, and bell
peppers—I wish, I wish,
I wish that I was better
at this—then I fill
my own plate and sit
across from my wife
and watch her eat, hoping
that the meal is good
enough—yum, she says,
but I'm still insecure—
I want to please her
more than I've wanted
to please anybody else
in my life—I want to be
as dependable as oxygen
and gravity—I want
to be physics, geometry,
and biology—I want
to be tender—I want
to hurry around the table
and kiss her until
the spices and olive oil
flood our faces—I want
to be salmon, onion,
carrot, tomato, broccoli,
and bell peppers—I want
to be home—I want to be
within, within, within.
Dear God, I want to be
a better husband
than I've ever been