State of Grace

I woke up at 4am. The flat looked unfamiliar.
Of course, this is his place. This is his bed and sheets.
The dawn peeked through the curtains. It illuminated.
His naked body in the shadows. My sleeping beauty.

I sit up beside him. The man I should have loved.
I touch myself in places where he’d kissed. For once.
For once in my life my nakedness means something. Beautiful.
Alive. This is the man I should have loved.

I walk to the window. Pretty cobblestones below.
I will stroll that path today. An hour before the wife comes.
With my umbrella. With my wrinkled dress.
My heart aches this very moment. Much too much.

I gaze at the man asleep behind me. My prince.
He’d grown his golden hair longer. He sleeps like a child.
His cheeks are kissed by the sun. The hairs on his breasts glisten.
He smells magnificent. Like young green rice.

If this is love, my God. Then what have I?
How can I bring these kisses? At my husband’s feet?
Who will believe the purity of this love? Such wretched.
Ravenous whore, slut. Bitch.

Fatima Lasay, San Roque
Monday, January 20, 2014

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