Love begets Love

The night my mother died,
neither the man I’d recently slept with,
nor the one before who had given me a ring,
answered the phone.

The one who showed at her funeral,
I hadn’t dated in four years.
He was happily betrothed to another.

But this time, you,
you were there.

Holding the children’s hands,
inciting a pillow fight,
rubbing the small of my back,
holding my sobs close to your chest as I wept.

But that’s not the story I want to tell.

I want to write about your curves.

When I first held you,
I couldn’t help but compare,
larger hands, slightly less hair there,
a lot more there, slenderer, quieter.

You, not him.
I compared you,
unfairly, of course, as one does.

But now I have gained a new voice singing,
a new voice singing, whistling, rather
a new life signaling life,
an urging forward.

Love begets love

Loss begets loss

But, in this moment, now,
your curves,
the supple texture of your back,
your breath warming my cheeks.

A rich yellow pear sliced open by a gleaming
pocket knife, it’s glistening juices
dripping down our chins,

crisp, fresh, autumnal love.

***

Deirdre Fagan is a widow, newlywed, and mother of two who has published poetry, fiction, and nonfiction in Connotation Press, Eunoia Review, Ink Sweat & Tears, Mothers Always Write, Words Apart, and Yellow Chair Review, among others.  She teaches literature and writing at Ferris State University.  Meet her at deirdrefagan.com