When the old folks make love,
they cry out softly in the dark.
They kiss each other's eyes and shoulders,
they laugh and sleep, dream and wake
and murmur, "dearest."
Their eyelids flutter like gauze curtains,
they breathe into each other's mouths, softly.
She says, "I dreamed the children were small again, in our old house."
He says, "I dreamed of fly fishing."
When the old folks make love,
they frame each other's faces
with their hands,
like a favorite photograph.
They touch each other's lips and cheeks,
they melt together, not
with the raging, aching burst of summer,
but with a deep, slow sob,
like the sound of a temple bell
coming up from Atlantis.
When the old folks make love
their bodies fit together like
pieces of a puzzle.
They sigh together in one single sigh.
One says, "This is so good."
The other smiles in the dark.
When the old folks make love,
they start in the kitchen
with coffee and the Times'
end up in bed
rubbing their feet together,
pulling each other's ears.
They whisper, "beloved," and "dear little face,"
and sometimes fall out of bed, laughing.
When the old folks make love,
they tell each other stories
of a thousand nights and one
when they loved and fought
and wept and sulked
and went to bed angry
knowing you're not supposed to,
lived silently for days
and only made up because
they bumped into each other
accidentally, in this bed.
When the old folks make love,
each makes a space
for the other to enter freely.
They write, "I love you,"
on each other's skin
again and again,
like a poem.
by Niki Nymark
