I stop editing the book

Feb 11, 2025

To walk the dog at dawn. Not mine, hers,

though she thinks she’s mine, the dog I meant.

She let me in her house with no secret garden.

I know where the keys are

to her heart.

In my pocket.

So, I clean the bowl

and dry the plates I washed

letting the warm water soothe

my scarred hands

then fold the bath towels, knowing no matter who lives

or who dies first I'm still a man.

I'll always need to do more.

I throw her racing suit over the shower rod
with care to let it dry.

Nothing can stop the

tenderness I hide from others. I'll get back

to the book. I'll get back to being

a man. But for now,

there's a sleek black maillot and aquiline

in my hands, awaiting a dip in saline,

and somewhere, my not-so-tiny grand

standing for her mother on Mediterranean shores

once controlled by Rome, draining into Mother Nile,

ready in her orange beret to jump in first, with no fears,

my relentless Starry.

No tears,

in my mind’s eye, a mirror of Miryam

churning the waves full throttle.

For now, a field of poppies waits,

and I wait to welcome the sun

then walk her,

and return to the Book,

while my smallest crosses her next Jordan.