until it is no longer night

her hands
are cutting biscuit dough as
supper simmers on the stove.
she will pour
the broth into a both. then
she will lift her glass,
left there
near the sink
filled with dishes
waiting to be done.

he will wait
to bend just above her
with want.
he will have her
hair in his hands
until it is no longer night,
but not quite morning.

until then,
the moon of
the neighbor's porchlight
shines round and full.
until then,
the transparent needle-points of stars
throw golden sparks
onto their roof.

who is it
who calls me inside?
what love calls to me,
but misses?

i will go back inside
my house to stay--
where our cats sleep,
where i brush my daughter's hair
as she nurses herself to sleep
while everyting in my house
quietly fills with dust.

i will turn my heart back
towards the man
whose night-hands i love
and wait for him
to bend over me
with my hair in his hands
until it is no longer night,
but not quite morning.