Stephen Turner

Saturday Morning: An Aubade

 

Let us lie here yet a little while

(Ah, the scent of bodies, the roll of hips)

And talk of consequential things—

The feel of flesh on fingertips.

Let us smile, let us curl

Into one another as lovers do;

For today we need not part,

Nor need we hurry to be through.

Let us live these moments

In the skin, embracing;

Let us make a game of love,

And the old, sorry world outfacing,

Let us read to one another,

Something by Shakespeare or Keats,

Or better still—oh, so much better

Write our verse on thighs and sheets.

Later we will speak of less urgent matters:

The children and how the err,

A doctor’s bill, the grief life brings.

Perhaps we’ll even bear

To stir ourselves enough to eat;

We can hurry back to bed if need arises,

As well it may—the mind forgets,

But the body memorizes.