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I stand at the kitchen window,
Watching the long lean line of him
Curl under the hood of my
Little red sports car,
Tinkering and fixing.
His expression is intent,
Brows arched like swans' necks
Working with deep concentration.
I find myself considering
That he works on my heart
In much the same manner.
His long, finely muscled
Seemingly infinite legs
Have to bend to make the descent into the engine
Possible,
Rendering him jack-knifed
Head under hood
Hard, rounded
Michelangelo-sketch of an Ass
Dancing slowly
As he moves to and fro,
Wrenching and screw-drivering.
He is unaware that I study
and admire him from my window perch.
I think to myself
Regarding his Klimtian beauty
that no man ever before him
Thrilled the artist in me thus....
The burnished pale gold of an oncoming tan
Obtained through a carpenters' vista
On a rooftop.....
The tightly curled mop of titian hair
A close helmet over aquiline features
and piercing, wise
Butane-blue eyes........
Although he calls them another color.
He never realizes his
Easy meandering grace as he walks,
A creature comfortable with its' athletes' body.
As I watch him, I am seized by a great longing
To touch him...kiss his forehead tenderly
Caress his denimed lean thighs
Pull his sinuous body close to mine
And feel my favorite part welcome me.
But I restrain the urge,
Because to disturb him now
Would be a travesty...a crime against art and form.
So very beautiful he is................
And this life can be so bereft of beauty....
.... it is tantalizing and humbling, all at once
Just to stand and observe quietly,
Studying him
and the masterpiece of maleness he is,
Blessing my good fortune at finding him
Prayerfully offering thanks
For the miracle he represents
In this dark comedy vignette I call
My Life.
He takes my breath
As I watch him, and when he is near
My heart thuds against my ribs
Aching with desire of him
Craving his heat
Like foliage craves water.
Transfixed,
I gaze at him working,
Trying to crystallize and perfectly capture
Every nuance of his movement,
Storing it away in graphic precious detail
In case times of absence and need arise.
I am no fool, you see..........
This AngelMan could fly away tomorrow
Returning to whatever celestial palace
He descended to me from,
Leaving me grief-struck
Blind
and Lame,
Unable to hope,
Unwilling to smile,
Incapable of momentum.
I therefore must memorize each glorious aspect of him
Worshipping silently
Always supplicating God
To not let today
Be
The Day.
Through him, I travel on in this plane....
Grateful for the elixir of joy he is
That numbs the wounds of prior lives
And lifts me from the abyss I was born to.
I realize I am looking at him through a film of tears,
And I rouse myself and wipe my eyes...
He has fixed the car, is putting away his tools
And will be in the house soon.
I cycle a few breaths through my lungs,
Quelling the need to weep
From sheerest gratitude for him.
He is coming in to wash his hands...
... I must smile.
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