Last night you sleepwalked down the stairs,
dressed in your nakedness as a candle is
in its own glow. Perhaps you answered the sound
of wind dragging its chains through the trees,
or merely were caught by the moon’s pull.
Whatever it was, you surprised me awake:
for your body, that early lily, lit up the stairwell.
I thought, where did my child go?

I thought of the rings of Jupiter, confusion
of lights, all the bands of love around your life.
I thought of Grandma Rose, whose nakedness
once startled me as a child into terror,
to think one so brittle might still allure.

And I wanted to cover your small shoulders
with the armor of my body, or with
an awkwardness people turn away from
calmly, as from the ordinary.
I wanted to dream you into a sanctuary
where no one could stray but the pure of heart.
I took your hand and led you up the stairs,
though even in that double darkness,
your body was already divining its way.