To Emma

[thrihyrne]

She has sat me down,
voicing the interlocking pieces of her skeleton for a science test
from cranium to toe;
this week it is muscles, from neck to foot.

As a continuous miracle, it is me who is allowed to have fingers kneading
across the paper-thin skin above her scapula,
down the triumverate regalities of her spinal column,
the recipient of the question, "Scratch back? But more rubbing than scratching, please."

And I acquiesce, sinking with reverent sigh, to lie behind her,
to use my weaker hand to trace long patterns
from sharp-winged shoulderblades
to cocooning indents of waist

to woo her to sleep

-since I forced her to turn off the radio-

She doesn't mind (much) that my feet are cold.

This ritual dance is one we both hold, tenuously-
She, grace, assured, and with a skeptical smile
glancing into the cavern of the self-aware

She humbles me. I bask behind her,
not grovelling, not in homage,
merely grateful.

Not flesh of my flesh.

Merely flesh of my heart.