there is a garden,
and in the garden a pool,
where you used to go and dip your long limbs
in slowly, one inch at a time.
and i would go and watch you there,
the bronze skin and the blue water,
and think of your name.
the lapping of the water at your thighs,
and the dripping of the droplets down your arms
and i would think of your name,
your name which kept promises
and stayed faith.
your body was a promise, then,
dipped in sunshine as you were on those afternoons:
a promise of womanhood and creation
and sexuality and uncontained enjoyment.
and your name was a promise
that crept into my heart, with the vision of your hands
and your lowered eyelids, the way you scooped
the tiny tides across your skin.
there was a garden,
and in the garden there was a pool,
and all the acts of man are excused
because of the promise of a woman.