On rare Saturdays
when the kids oversleep
you'll startle me awake
by sliding your hand under my nightshirt
and resting it on my formidable gut
where the long dormant muscles will clumsily try
to stand at attention for your superior fingers
but before they can get out of their cots
or even attempt to form a proper row
you will slap them lightly
putting them down humanely
like befuddled leaky dogs
Next you'll trace spirals
out from my inny
to the rings of my ribs
mapping the wild tantrums of my acid reflux
and whispering in your indian oracle voice
nearly inside my ear,
"De eye of de storm."
I'll smile then,
eyes still closed,
puffing out my back
like a morning cat
and pushing my ear ever closer
to that apocalyptic breath of yours
like a child who loves to be tickled.
Then I'll reach my hand back
and run it over your pilgrim night gown
to find the womb we've worn out
and press the back of two sausage fingers
flat into your tummy crease.
With the adjacent fingers I'll wrap your belly around them
and declare in my french chef's voice
"Porcs dans une couverture."
And as the kids begin to herd around upstairs
waking the furniture,
one of us will kiss the other
right between the shoulder blades
and push these words deep into the last taught skin:
"Remember our waistlines?"