In the Hotel Room
In the hotel room, in the dim lamplight, in her black slip,
she turned her head this way and that in the soft glow.
It was all too fragile: the darkness, the faint curve of her lip,
the slant cut of her hair, since nobody could know
just when the hard light of the corridor might burst
into that tenderest space and prove the space illusion.
Whether it was his hand or the bedside light that came first
to define what she felt like, such moments of vision
were rare, with most blossoming suddenly out of so little.
It is hard being in darkness and light all at once,
to be sheltered yet vulnerable, now solid now brittle,
to be subject of both self-construction and chance.
Everything remains in its stillness while also in flight.
Love and the skin. Love and the nerves. Love, time, and night.
It's good to be alive. It doesn't last for ever. So we celebrate and dress up and are glad we are born and that those we love have been born.