The Universe would turn this way and that in front of the floor to ceiling bathroom mirror and sigh.
With a pork roll finger or two she would puck at her dimpling rippling thighs
and rearranges the molecules, planets and stars, to satisfy her vanity.
But they would return, the orbit fixed to her most desperate dismay,
and with such a realization she would throw down her wrecking-ball fists and return to bed.
Her Lover, stirred from the sleep of their latest intimacy,
would curl up against the cool touch of her vast skin and call to her in the voice so dear
to their pillow talk about how she is his everything.
At this she would roll window side in their sheets and complain
as her belly and arms spilled out from the navy negligee she bought
to cover her ever stretching belly button.
You’re beautiful, he would say to her, with his tone hinging on a door,
the possibility of knowing her secrets dependent on his negotiation of these bedroom laws.
Speek sweetly, he reminds himself, she’s a woman after all.
But you’re not. You’re just getting bigger, more complicated,
you’re reaching the far corners of everything I could not imagine,
like an orgasm of potential, you claw the very walls of my being with the hope
of writing you down with symbols and numbers.
You don’t know me.
But I have to, and if you let me I will, and I’ll write poetic mathematic equations,
count the planets and spheres. Look this dry patch of asterouds, this pimple an imploding star.
This kankle the rings around Saturn, please let me touch your bones.