Warm Imperfection

He rolled over, and in the silky twilight could detect his lover-

                        His wife of twelve years...

           lay dreaming, and drooling... on the pillow, wearing

                her signature fragrance- lait du mamelle. 

The curve of her hip would never fit into her wedding dress now--

                      it had expanded to allow four children passage

                                         into this world...

                                          their world.

Her forehead, though still, held worry in it.

                      storylines on her face told of feeding family time after time, 

                                           and correcting and healing and soothing and listening.

Silver strands of hair glistened from her temples like spider silk, 

                       spun out of an altruistic altar-mind, 

                                            constantly crafting her next soul build. 

He stared, and met her again.

She was imperfect to look at, warm to the touch. 

Years ago, when he picked her up on campus, he couldn't have seen this, 

for in front of him were bright eyes, slender curves, smooth skin, and shiny brown hair. 

Beneath that, 

              and forthcoming, 

                          was the mother of his children, 

              who, after a decade of spirit evolution, would surprise him in turns.

For as her body worked its way toward the grave, 

                her soul was climbing to heaven. 

He saw her clearly this morning, as light from the window cleaved to more light-

                 He saw the undeniable shine from his sleeping, service-worn wife. 

 And he was grateful God gave him choice, and he chose to cleave to her,

                                                And leave all else behind.

He thought of another kind of light- 

                 the fabricated kind.

      it glowed from computers, flashed from florescence, and sparked in dark alleys.

                       It beckoned to the cleaving nature of men, 

      asking them to cleave to cold screens, to faces on a page, to voices over a phone.

This light, which always goes out eventually, 

                was full of photo-shopped bombshells (what an appropriate term). 

                          Proprietors' pockets were filling as they sold these shells

                                             (who knew not that they were so much more than that), 

And the men, like lemmings, kept cleaving and cleaving to the cold perfection behind the glass-

                never satiated. never full. never feeling 

                                              just 

                                              like 

                                              this. 

In love with the contents of a seashell

(which had been through a little rough undertow)...

                                                                           

No, this pearl was better. She was worth the messy ride-

                The baby puke, the streaky mascara, the hormone swings inside.  

He thanked her, quietly, for never steering away. 

and vowed again, "forever". 

In wonder, he patiently anticipated

                              the opening

                                             of those bright eyes.