Making Love

Their bedroom door ajar,
I catch my breath;
watch my father
tend my mother...
brushing, combing,
plaiting her hair.

She’d grab his hand,
every once in a while...
smile like a kid
given candy...

He’d sing a verse,
or two, of ‘Bringing
in the Sheaves’...vainly
bid her join in;

a Mission hymn –
they used to go, together,
when those were the days.

Poppa often tried
to reach her this way; buries
her face in his sleeve –
calls him, ‘My boy’.

Kneels beside her
on their bed –
shuts his eyes
like he’s saying
a prayer...touches
her arm

talks to her, softly;
does his best
to cut her nails –
seems the scissors,
shiny-bright,
kind of spook her.

Just a child,
as I was then,
I’d often wondered
how love was made...
and that afternoon,
I knew.