She wondered how this moment 
might feel, echoing through the syntax 
of her body. How it might feel 
when his thin lips were finally 
still, no longer saying,
Is that all we’re having for dinner?
That story again? How you exaggerate.

He wouldn’t want a stranger 
to see the naked skin, draped 
like nylon, end to end 
over jagged bone. His sagging flesh, 
the penis like a seahorse, 
deflated and washed to shore.

So she washes the body 
in quiet shadows, listens 
to the moon, sounds 
of water, the slow caress of sponge.
She rinses gray chest hairs, 
the secret folds of legs 
and arms. She takes his hand, 
marvels at the simple triangle 
of space between flesh and flesh. 
Place for a pipe, fishing pole, 
her fingers. The damp weight
in her palm. With a body 
still full of sentences,
she whispers,
Let me tell you a story.