Pimone Triplett’s poem, “Bird of Paradise Aubade
With Bangkok Etching Over the Bed,” appeared in NER 22.2 (2001).
Woke to hear you refuse
to stop working in heavy rain, shoveling the mud
that beggars our part
of the yard. After a while, I heard the rasp of iron’s
rake on gravel, wet earth, your bending for the gaps
to get the seedlings right. Then for hours from the window
I watched all your muscles connecting up, your body’s parse
of sweat and salt, hollows
between the ribs appearing, then not, around your
breath’s steady reed and thrum. Watched,
you see, until I knew, for once, I wouldn’t try to leave.
Though I did want to walk out and say something else
about moving through the myth
of ask and answer once.