(EDITOR NOTE: This was presumably written for Robert)

March 1, 1968

Look in these eyes, my love, and see all the eyes that looked back into your own, surprised, alone or there completely.

The eyes across a room that do not swivel to some secret route, the eyes above the counter that return the smile while counting change, the eyes across the continent that stare from blurry paper page in fear or rage or disbelief at being public at such a private time, children dead, the sewers burst, or stunned, the winning ticket in the trembling hand, see all these eyes my love and watch them close, sink to dream, under the flesh of you, the commitment of desire, the timeless hours locked loin wise in the cave of sheets.

See this mouth, my love, and hear it speak, the latest news of sunrise days, the apple time along the riverside, when fish jump the water in pursuit of gold, the tired times, when words roll out in whining cadence, why did you, why and never do, the silent times when words are in the air, lie there laughing though the faces keep their pose, the fearful times of help, and pain, and crying sounds like echoes of the childish year, the simple times of silky talk, don’t forget the bread and milk and by a stamp, the hurting times of negligent remarks in front of strangers, the beginning times of I love you, surprise on the lips and drops of moisture in the crotch, the words shouted over the sound of toilets flushing, called from room to room and repeated louder, the last words as you go out the door, the words as you return.

Look at these hands  love, that have slid along the cave like bone before your hip, that have cut the chicken joint by joint, and remember this dismembering as they stroke the cat, the hands that pasted little scraps of paper into the whole, and hung them on the wall for messages, the hands that punched the belly of the rising dough with softening thud, the hands that comb the dandruff from the hair, the hands that touch the Chinese bowl and trace its dragon tall design, the hands that drag the pencil across the paper writing words, and crossing out, the hands that dial the phone, call in the outside world, the hands that hand you thing, and take away, the hands that hold your hands in crowded place, making skin island, silent love, secret tickling on the palm, love in public.

Look at these breasts my love, that have suckled child, that have hidden in the structured cotton cloth and gained themselves a point, that have risen little minaret’s to stroking love, that have dribbled water in the shower, the droplets going glob-wise to the tip and falling off, that grew too soon and sent the red of blushing to my face, that flew from out my blouse into your hand, to lie there quiet messengers saying all, that will one day sag, life flat and cross-eyed on my chest, that will make me never look a model in my clothes, that ache one time a month with swollen pain, that made you ask, why do I have nipples as you view your own hair enclustered peaks.

Look at this belly love, that is jammed crammed and stuffed within its rubberized container, that heaves with faseous indigestion and craves more cream, that lying, flops along my leg like some gone senile female Buddha, that swollen with child became an amphitheatre for the resonance of kicks, and empty, curled back again to fatness and desire, that marks me as a glutton, and a woman, and a failure in the world of glamour, that supports your sleeping body or wedged against your back, transmits the warmth of night time lie together sleeping.

Look at this curly nest my dear, that speaks back to you of love, or trickles unwanted water into the porcelain bowl, that itches with desire and wets itself with joy, that is lip and mouth and entrance of love, and exit for life, that marks me from man, that rules me with silent, twitching orders, that kisses back, that clenches close, that sleep when all the skin is sleeping, too.

Look at these legs my love, that carry me from place to play, and running spans the softness of the summer soil, or thunder along the tar and crackle skin of city streets, that cross and bounce when sitting in a chair, that straddle rocks and lie apart for love, that hold me up from animals, that go limp with fear, or tingle when too long sat upon, that jam themselves inside the confines of smallish car, or spread themselves upon the openness of grass, that bring me walking straight and sure in the direction you have gone, carrying above them all this other meat assemblage of myself.

Look at all this my husband, and see, me, whom you embrace in love.