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Even Though
By Nancy A. Henry

You know I will wrap our windows in dangerous
flame and turquoise silks like the Thai restaurant
with the tropical aquarium color scheme
--lotus and shrimp and honeysuckle lights--
that I cannot resolve to be sensible, have no reserve,
buy my clothes by feel, and wear the velvets inside
against my breasts;
that sometimes I get out of bed at night and drive
to town
for drunken noodles, three peppers hot,
because I have to have them,
right away. I'm warning you,
I'll wake you with my cravings;

mix the colors,
paint the kitchen mango,
burrow my face into the collars of your shirts
when you are gone for overnight,
to breathe the sweetness,
the musk of you from the fibers;

the next day you may find smudges
of my lipstick there, and I will buy our wine
by color and price or for the lively labels;
I will often cry for no and every reason
write poems that embarrass you,
and read them on our anniversaries,
in front of our friends;
I will grow very old one day,
be even more bewildering and sentimental,
put my shirts on inside out,
without meaning to and you--
even though you know all this--
still want me.

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Document last modified on: 04/02/2006

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