Women I Love

Listen:

One afternoon, I saw a woman

lift her head and wonder why no one stood

beside her in the train,

touching the back of her neck or maybe

whispering or smiling into her eyes.

I thought I caught her thinking,

Who sees me?

I knew she craved a lover who would

linger over her body,

cherish her strength,

return her tenderness.

I knew she had not found this love among men.

How like my mother she was.

How thankful I am for the ways

women can sometimes love each other.

There is something truer there than desire.

It is wondrous for me to see a woman

with a child’s delicate ace, and calloused, capable hands.

I love the woman who has strength enough to do anything

except hide her own strength.

I have known women whose laughter was like bells

because you knew they had been wounded before.

I prize women who look best

barefoot in their bedclothes, tousled and tired.

I know women who remember the unremarked beauty of

these tired women.

I understand women who claim to hate children

but shied their nephews from the wrath of loving parents.

And I marvel at the women who serve the men they love

while always struggling against servility.

Their quick anger,

their light slumber,

their early morning voices on the phone.

I love nape and collarbone,

a cheek wet with tears,

the line of the arm, of the ankle,

and the infinite expressiveness of their hands when

they speak,

or touch themselves, or me.