More than Brokenness

He will trace

the curve of your lower spine,

and you’ll remind

him how you broke it twice

in labor decades

ago, but he won’t care

that you have babies

who have darlings

of their own because maybe

he’s obliged by the

loyalty a parent wears

always. He will say,

“You’re remarkable,

in case you don’t know,”

and you won’t

because you’ve never hoped

for admiration or praise.

You will try to forget

your unloved years,

the hatred you can’t unhear,

and he’ll whisper,

“You haven’t known love yet.”

You will find one another

within the white and gray,

and you’ll pray

to God that he stays

unlike the other

men, bored of long stories.

As none have accomplished,

he will extinguish

your ache of loneliness,

and you’ll dissolve his worries

of death and the after.

Together, you will play

symphonies in the evening,

too late to leave,

too early to sleep,

so you’ll muse for hours

until he reminds you

to take your medicine,

and you’ll thank him

before dozing on the velvet cushions

where you had your first kiss.

You will wonder how two

lives have mingled in a time when

you thought age would only

be a burden, but when you dream,

he will carry

you to bed, and

when you wake

in the middle of night,

stirred by a noise outside

or your doubtful mind,

you’ll find the outline

of his face and trace

it. Then, he will remind you

that he broke his nose

twice in a war decades ago,

but you won’t mind the slope

in his crooked bridge or the view

of the creviced

scar on his chest,

and you’ll undress

to show stripes from the last

time you were pregnant.

In the dimness

of his room, you’ll whisper,

“I’m here for the rest,” sure

that this was so much more

than healing brokenness.