You'd Hold Me At Night

Mornings when I'd wake
I'd find my fingers tangled
in your wiry hair,
each encircled
by one of your curls—
the only rings of yours
I ever wore.

And my leg would be caught
in the scissors of your thighs,
gripped tightly,
as though you would cut
through if I moved,
leaving me with
no way to rise, to go.

Your arms—a yoke
around my shoulders
pressing my head to
your great chest,
your hands—a padlock
at my back.

There was no escape,
no way to move
from the trap in which
you'd hold me.

'Til you'd wake,
become aware—
then I'd be free
to stare at your
back from across
the great expanse
of bed.