She told him it was enough, just the rain
pelting against the window, trees bowing
in the wind.
She told him it didnít matter if his hands
faded, if his smile stretched out like a thin
rubber band. It didnít matter if his chest
swelled and sank as he breathed
in her scent, as his eyes rolled up
and the pupils disappeared.
She didnít mind, she said, how strange
he was, how every now and then he sang
a song about a woman and a cow and a roll of silk.
She was fine with that, and with his odd clothes
that hung about him like a wizardís cloak.
She fed him cake she baked so quickly,
with flavors that burned his mouth to joy.
She fed him a casserole of clouds and milk
and honey laced with gin.
She offered him bread, she offered mushrooms
and olives and cheese.
Never had he eaten so well.
She told him it was enough, the way he loved her
with his mouth and hands. She would never ask for more.
If you have any thoughts on this poem, Steve Klepetar
would be pleased to hear them.