He is smiling sweetly
Talking about his wise love for his sons
And his best friend.

He glances at my neck,
At the crease between my breasts.
Then he looks again.

There is a small scratch on his brown, furry forearm
It’s winking at me.

He has taken my hands
As I speak of the death of my loved friend.
His eyes tear as mine do.

He says I’m pretty.
He wants me to enjoy dessert,
As if I’m a woman who should eat dessert.

And I wonder how late he could stay in the morning.


Jaymee Kjelland
February 2017