She Reads To Me In Spanish

She reads to me in Spanish,

Cervantes, Garcia-Marquez;

She sings to me in Spanish,

Folk tunes, the Padre Nuestro.

She lets fly lilting words,

Full of Iberian sunshine,

Whose syllables frolick

In the evening air.

It’s the language that puts dimples in her cheeks,

The language that comes from her whole body.

I don’t understand

Half the words I claim to know,

But if I told her,

She might stop.

Hell-Fire-Heart

They say 

the atoms that make up life,

Were born in hell-fire-hearts

of ancient supernovae.

But that does not make stardust

any less magical.

They say that complex atoms

were born in the hell-fire-hearts

of dying stars.

When I sit by your bed,

your hand folded in mine,

I feel their heat.