Dawn chorus

Through no fault of my own
I begin to heal him,
tenderly smooth his brows,
describe their limits, my power between them.

I close all doors and call my body Safety,
brush soft feathers on his chest.

First the Virgin Bride
then the feisty whore –
soon I cannot tell apart the scent of lust
and love’s sweet perspiration.

His base notes shudder
as I sing the hymn he plays,
the chorus softer now,
as when a bird retreats to the woods.

I begin the old business.
All the time at prayer.

(First published in Blue Fifth Review, Fall 2018)