Our Wives

Picture her in the middle of the street
the city spreading out from her shoulders
like vast concrete wings
Graffitied railcars for bracelets
and city lights for rings.

Picture her in pose,
her curves flirting with geometry,
her black dress moving like a round of applause.

Picture her as a precursor,
a lovely gospel,
carrying the blueprints for life in her body.

Picture her as scripture,
less a descendant of Eve
and more the witness of Magdalene.

Now picture her at the supermarket
hair in her eyes, body sore and tired from the week,
but every walk down an aisle is like God marrying her to you over and over again.