She’ll be there, still curled in the green chair,
braless and blonde, her messy hair falling around her face,
her eyes affixed, amused, to words on her lap.
She might have read them faster, but she likes
to let them settle in her brain, to wonder what might be true
if these new words are also true. The world is burning.
And when she smiles you want to know if her heart pitched
when she heard the garage door, if she pictured your face
at the top of the stairs and wanted your warm hands
anywhere, just anywhere near her,
but you already know because you usually do.
She says she hates you reading her mind, but you know
that’s a lie because she smiles when she says it:
The world is burning and she loves knowing she’s known.
Her feet are cold. Arms around her, you’ve felt your own heat
sink to her last toe and thrilled to do it again and again.
She’ll be there and she’ll smile at you and that old green chair
won’t look so ugly anymore, even as you wonder how long
it takes to read seven stories if you haven’t got all day.
She calls on God in gasps sometimes. You laugh,
but by God, isn’t this something?