In her bed, our daughter

In her bed

our daughter has had her one more story,

her one more drink,

and dreams the part of herself that we never see.

In our living room

we have a movie running,

the Canadian Rockies of the early 17th century shift

in some conflict involving

intimate campfire reds, steel-blue glacial arms

cradling white, and silver-gray aspen groves to move

your intent eyes... I chose the movie this time.

The couch is long enough for us both

as I watch this light playing upon your nightgown

it is more deadly than second-hand smoke:

the Canadian Rockies

moving in the lines of your face, the folds

of your clothing.

I am kneading these silver trout you lay across my lap in this

stream we make of our bodies.

I will lay you in the winter glow of aspens

and smooth the clothing from your skin

so you can warm by our fire---

night-breath bristling the

invisible down

of your neck, fanning the glow of

your eyes.