Patina

By Mary Kalinski

We are good to touch

good to break in,

starched denim sleeves

and leather soles–

better the plum pit grit

than its sallow, speckled skin.

Let us erode, slowly then:

hands folding in

carving out space for the other,

black polish and wax on

these old boots, this coat.

They stiffen

but no longer feign that

virginal prudence.

Your forehead creases in worry

of its own example, but tomorrow

I will not be peach soft

and peeling,

your corn silk hair will coarsen

close to your head

and that moth-eaten coat of fur

will shelter nothing but

our sturdy hearts,

sun-bleached, weathered

and warm.