Two Mornings

The lake splays through
birch valleys like fingers pulling
tenths from a keyboard, sharp despite
vague April Minnesota drizzle.

Twelve time zones east
on a coconut fiber mattress you are asleep
under the sentient rozzing membrane of night
in Sri Lanka where morning
came more thickly to us together.

After tea we walked in Bata flip-flops
to the well to bathe
and it hummed dull green
translucent, broomed smooth by
the bundled straws of a morning chore sun.

You reached in with a hand
all grace and strength, free-written
off the cuff, unhesitant as the water's
elastic skin allowed you through;

then the dry-rattle tin bucket,
soapings and dousings, washing
the richness of night's musk
from our hands, our hair, our slim middles
and into the paddy field drain.

I wake alone in the land of lakes
with your name in my hand,
I roll the word from palm to palm
like a smooth round stone
as small as the world and as large as alone. . .

I rise from bed and open the chrome tap
to wash my face in warm running water.
In the kitchen, heat a kettle for tea.
Indeed I dreamt of you:
against these small reminders
I have no defence.

Note: italicized text from "maggie and millie and molly and may" by e.e. cummings.