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Brown Jewels
by Philip Asaph
I have explored, adored and examined your body
with my nose to your skin and my glasses on,
seen the green of the veins through your breasts
and those fine white hairs along your jaw
that remind me you are animal, human and fragile.
I know the knots in your neck and back–
the knots in your mind as well–and the payments
the parts of you have made as a mother.
Mother of beauty, I have witnessed the facts of you,
not some dream of you, with a love
that cherishes both surface and substance.
And maybe because I am the man I am, the kind
who finds pleasure in the graces other miss,
I have especially enjoyed your freckles, which seem
more like brown jewels or the spray of constellations.
I see them splashed across your arms and legs,
or like a flight of birds in the V between your chest.
And yes, I am seeing them as clearly as I see
the whitening at your temples and your tear-shaped teeth.
I am not a fool who falls in love with a myth;
it is you I am in love with, you with all your flaws--
every wrinkle of your face, every flower in the vase,
every freckle I check for any change of color, size or texture
as I explore your forearms or your thighs
in those peaceful spans of time before and after sex,
which feel like open fields at dawn or sailing the sea at night.
And these freckles of yours, because they are yours,
please me more than gems on satin or falling stars.