[for Margaret]
At forty-nine, he thinks he's got
his share, holds up his right
hand where, alone, he's got ten.
She's traced the map
of his forehead like a path
that leads to some place
she wants to go. & the year
a knife entered his hip is a time
toward which she would
travel. What he wants
just now is not to think
about the blows
his body has taken, & as if on cue
she says, me, I've only got
these two: the line
beneath her navel where they
lifted out twin sons, &
the scar that is the same
line deepened where
their daughter rose up
thirteen months later.
You got me, he says,
as their skins start
to knit together
a path toward longing,
their bodies already
lost to the places
where love
has left
its indelible marks.