First Reading - Impressions

I wonder how you stand so still,
a shifting audience and your mouth full of words
scribed while I breathed deep.
Those nights I sat with you, unable to pull
my eyes from your pages.

Now, your voice fills bitter, treble
pipes from your throat, loops

back to the table you crouched under as a child, writing
swift reprisal from the deep-belted voice if you did not sing
for company. You strained for high notes, to not
be seen like the lace beneath women's skirts.
The smoky voice you loved, invaded
our bed, kept my hand entwined with yours,
tucked me in close to the length of your spine.
But here, I spy on those who whisper while you read.

Our eyes meet over strange heads, yours drop quickly
to your text. Mine to your hands
clamped to the podium's grainy veneer. Words roll
clean from your teeth. I remember
cradling those hands, keeping them safe from leering
eyes or sleep-ripping calls.

Later, over Teriyaki, our fingers wrap round
amber bottles. Slick glances wind through cracks
in our dissection of the man who hit on you,
my nerves that streaked over the waiting
silence as you thumbed through your latest book,
you hadn't decided what to read and I was anxious -
this my first reading of you. You drive us
home, tracing yellow lines as you had my breast last night.

I watch your hand palm the wheel, stretching delicate,
reach for the other, examine it in mine. This one,
honeysuckle smooth, slashes men
cleanly, lays waste to tall trees, holds cigarettes,
sends longing down wires.