You know that like an ideal mother 
she will never leave you,
though after a week of rain 
you begin to worry

But you accept her brief absences, 
her occasional closed doors 
as the prerogative 
of an eccentric lover

You know which side of the bed 
she gets up on, 
though, being a night person, 
you are on more intimate terms 
with the moon, who lets you watch, 
while the sun will put out your eyes 
for tampering with her privacy

She wants to be known by her parts, 
fingers, a flashing leg, 
a cheek, a shoulder, by things 
spilled from her purse:
small change, a patterned scarf, 
mirrors, keys, an earring

You like the fact that her moods 
are an orderly version of yours, 
arranged, like the needs of animals, 
by seasons: her spring quirks, 
her sexual summers, 
her steadfast warmth in the fall;
you remember her face on Christmas Day, 
blurred, and suffused with the weak smile 
of a woman who has just given birth

The way she loves you, your whole body,
and still leaves enough space between you 
to keep you from turning to cinders 
before your time!

You admit she colors 
everything you see, 
that Renoir and Monet 
are her direct descendants; 
she could make you say 
the grass is red, the snow purple

She never gave up on you
though it took you billions of years 
to learn the alphabet 
and the shadow you cast on the ground 
changed its shape again and again