Ring

The back of my left hand presses
pleasantly into a cotton blue pillowcase. Through my squinted
eyelid I see
soft edges of a flattened crescent that must have been
cut from back-lit clouds: it is that white -
almost pure light. This
light-shape
sits on my gently upturned finger. I can feel it
cool
in the narrow hollow
where finger meets palm

             a dove
             hiding itself
             in the cleft of the rock

and this
shape lights
the sphere of my sight, making peripheral
the cool, dark masses of the furniture and shadows that
inhabit the room where
I'm lying.

The Hinge

She works - silent, invisible -
      between
husband and children, the chores.

The children move her
back
      and
forth;
she pivots, affixed to
their flexing muscles and electric minds.

Her husband - standing still -
      stills her.
She has so tightly pressed into him
that an indentation in her own shape
now marks him.
Except he splinters, or
she erodes, they are an inseparable
      one.

When she wearies - sore -
she groans, complains, yet still turns.
What she needs:
      free
      cashmere touches,
      free
      orchestral words.

With or without,
she remains - moving and working -
      between
husband and children, the chores.