Three Gifts of the Past from Three Lovers

Elsa
Smell of goat hair, horse piss.
Rough hands clenched in my hair,
moving above me. Unexpected softness
at the hips, the breasts,
the smooth of the waist beneath the armor.
Sliding into you like oil,
sword beside the furs.
My people in ruins and chains.

Daniel
Footsore and merry
a lute and a knapsack on my back.
Rushes on the floor,
bread and milk from the cook.
Bright fabrics in the court:
brocade and cloth of gold.
Your throne solid and carved from oak,
same beard, same heaviness. Same caress.
The parting, the return, the parting:
We'll meet again, we said
and we did. It was not the throne
that took you from me this time.

Robin
Hot sun in the field,
a pail of dinner. Remove the jacket
and fold it carefully,
sun-wrinkles at the eyes when I see you,
picking your way across the furrows.
My wife, my helpmate,
my killer of Indians
my cooker of meals.
Under the maples of this New World we sit,
not touching, and balance the heat between us.
You bear me sons.

Frances Donovan
May 12, 2007