"Ma Jolie" by Daniel Kraines

  A checkered curtain drawn across the window holds the street out of view but lets

the wind in under its fringes. Long hair draped over the back of your shoulder,

next to you I lie afraid to take a corner of the blanket from your fearsome, naked

body, lioness, after months of reciting your name

to myself, name of a Picasso. Ma Jolie. A small gap in your front teeth.

Pinned across the wall, mysterious to me, panels of a print unfolding,

intricate weave of ink threaded in and out of itself: the patterned wings of a dark monarch.

In the yard, the metal workers have left their scraps to rest.

Necklaces hang over the corner of the bedpost. The yelp of a dog behind the door.

You waved the blanket over my head to cool me while I pleased

you further and further until you'd had enough.

Beyond the bed, a tall, oak white closet. A box marked photos. Another: memories.

What will you feel when you wake to the sun beating against the white walls of your room?