Witch Wife

Witch-Wife

Between the salt lick

and the stream, you

like the fawn, step closer

through the low pines

through the high moon's light

to gaze upon her milk-

soaked skin, her cheeks afire

from epiphanies of red curls.

When she sings the solstice

songs, lilac perfume

spills from her fountain

and you want to steal

those thigh pillows

from Renoir

and all those other brooding

voyeurs,

to nuzzle in the crook of

her high seas and low tides

and sleep,

however lightly,

there.