The farmers sleep with
Third eyes open.
Ever watchful over their teenage daughters.
How the boys must beseech them desperately.
Uncomfortable, muggy fondlings
In the bed of a red rusted pickup
Parked by the creek dubbed Lovers Point.
At the breakfast table in the morning,
They glow with proximity
And their tired eyes hover dreamily
From the orange cranberry muffins
To the freshly squeezed orange juice
Filled at the half way mark of a mason jar.
When you ask why they don't eat
They simply smile
And say nothing.
Your curiosity will linger on your teeth
But still you will say nothing.
Bitter memories of your past regrets
To teach lessons of discretion
Are better left unsaid.
You will not douse them in the overwhelming
Blanket of your security
And the palms of your hands that
Once smiled in the womb like presence
Of handling your new born daughter
And naming her Jane or Virginia
Is suddenly missing the hold of her hand.
But you share a few natural harmonies
Like the silent agreement of pecking his cheek
Twice before bedtime
Or the precarious way you both sit at
The wobbling three legged milking stool
When your pulling on Betsy on Thursday
And she's tugging at Betty on Wednesday
As you shave the gray stubble of your throat.
But for now in the strangely comfortable
Peace of staring at the spots of jam
On the white and yellow checkered table cloth
You'll abruptly slide your chair back
And lean closely to her ear as you slightly whisper
Slightly inaudible notations.