Silent Flood

It is
an hour before you
expect me
to be finished work.
It is
Valentine's Day.

Pale blue satin skims a full breast,
echoing the blue lines
of the veins
in my chest and shoulders.
It is new, saved
for Valentine's Day,
almost too large, even for my
body as it grows with our
child.
I feel almost
pretty.

You have fallen asleep
in your clothes but
I expect
you will awake
as you usually do
when I come up from work.

You barely stir,
your feet hang off the bed,
soles up,
shoes on.

You do not notice that I am
an hour early -
a gift to you in honor of
today's saint -
nor that I
have put myself on
the line
again
by asking without words
for that which
most wives
find
too often imposes
on their bodies.

Your eyes creep open
as I
crawl
into bed.
They are so bleary,
I do not have
the heart
to impose.

I am
sorry
to have disturbed you.

I turn off
the light.
I cannot turn off
the
silent flood.