The twitching of her small boney feet

in my hands at midnight

in the dark living-room

as the wood stove fire dies out,

as she sleeps, legs stretched

across the couch, and at this moment

I am the only person on Earth

awake enough to love her feet.

This memory now precise, like the taste of her lips,

the taste of her honeyed-cream pussy,

the taste of her brown erect nipples,

the scent of her hair and perfume,

the scent of her panties fresh from the dryer

as I fold them and place them in a drawer.

Living in the same house with Michia,

I have the twitching suspicion love is defined

by the daily details, more than any romantic fantasy

we inherit from parents, books, or movies.

Her small boney feet carried her to me,

now in my hands at midnight, each moment with her

makes life possible, as when she looks into my eyes,

as if my eyes matter to her more than anything.

Each tender moment has nothing to do with poetry,

literature, popular songs, feminist studies, cell-phones,

biotechnology, or anything we see on television.

-Astor Cerunnos  1.13.13