From an Opened Window

From an Opened Window

By Willie James King

From an opened window,

and wind-shifting curtains,

a woman watches a man

at work, shirtless, muscles

lengthening, tightening like

leather, the color of copper

where beads of sweat limns

his sunlit skin, like a fused

flux of emeralds, enamored

sequins aglow on the body

of a newly-shed snake.

She hears the hiss of his

shears as they shave a row

of hedge he is trying to trim

to the same height; he's hired

help, she doesn't even know

his name, nor does she care

to learn it, She'd never call it,

this decent lady who would

be known as nothing less.

No matter, she's captured

by his chest, the only part

she is able to see from

the lilt and turn of the trunk

of his narrow waist. But

that is all she needs to see

while she wonders to herself

what it would be like if they

were alone, coupling beneath

the canopy of a huge bed

she hates sharing with the husband

she has known too long

now, who's not hers; scent

of apples from a nearby

orchard fragrances

the air, and she pretends

it is their scents, mingling

as she turns britches she's

ironing, wishing she

had washed for him to wear.