After Her Stroke

Above this cold chair 
they say vegetable. Voices like calves 
bawling for their mother’s teats. 
I think yellow squash, summer, 
radish the shade of my lips 
in sun, all the ways to be beautiful. 
Even after five dull children, 
my breasts really never sagged. 
I cradle them days when he nods 
across from me. He spreads his cold palms 
on my cheeks, looks deep 
though he thinks it’s just his face 
he sees in my blue irises. 
I want to say Lawrence 
you never held me right. And when 
did you see my legs never sprouted 
one blue vein? The kind wandering 
down a thigh like a wet blue trail of mud. 
You can’t kiss a thigh like that. 
What I love is my skin, how cool 
it presses me. They watch scared. 
I breathe to say it and everyone circles 
my face. Scared I whisper, and they think 
I mean me, and who knows 
how long they’ll weep, pray me out 
of my body, when it’s what I want to keep.