I Thought the Morning Sun was You, Lingering
by Bailey Watson
The doldrum fog of Lake Lanier had donned
September strength. The regal sun was dashing
Neath your wifely bedsheet veil, stripped
of rubied breastplate, freed of golden diadem.
You stared as you pleased, awhile you pleased
His hands and groggy lids with his own
Refracted glory; you reclined, pined upon
Ivory linens, spied him through the threads
And smiled. He kissed your brumous lips
And roused. You pulled apart, you to yours
And he to his. But with your lingering
Lingerie he draped across his brow, he saw
His tenants from the banister, ruling,
Looming without their knowing; he spied
If they might lift an insolent, ignorant eye,
That he might have the joy of smiting them.
Yes—your husband shrouded his face as Hal
The night-morn of Agincourt, as Ulysses
Within the guised Achaean underbelly.
As I gazed upon the copper coin—thinking
It was you, anodyn—my eyes did not curtsey.
And I fear that I am going to pay the price.
About the Creator
Bailey Jarvis
Just trying to obey the muses. They're holding my family hostage.
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Comments (1)
I think it’s really admirable the way you’ve captured the intimacy of intimacy itself — how powerful and transcendent it feels in the moment, yet how fragile it becomes once we get dressed and step back into the world (at least, that’s my interpretation). You’ve expressed something both deeply sensual and quietly human. Great work with this piece — it lingers really beautifully.