There was a morning when my mother
And father slept as I silently
Watched. I was nine at the time and
Knew little about people or life.
I wondered innocently about
What went on between my parents in
This room so often closed and dark.
What I saw was my mother sleeping
On her side, hugging her pillow with
Her face hidden, and father's body
Curved tight against her back, sleeping
Warm and close and so spoonlike, his arm
Folded loosely over her, his hand
Held snugly around the soft slimness
Of her waist. His face was blurred with
Sleep and somehow content. The air was
heavy and warm with the breath of beer
And body odor and something else,
A heavy mist of effort, effort
And fulfillment. Still curious and,
Yet, strangely empty, I silently
Closed the door and turned away.