March 8, 2013 by Melody Newey
I notice the spoon moving toward her mouth;
a hand, arm, shoulder of a man in tweed jacket.
He feeds her while her cheeks and sweater blush pink.
Black hair at her shoulders has begun to gray.
She pushes her face toward spoon in his hand;
his other hand cupped beneath her chin. They pause,
laugh together. Her shoulders shake, breasts bounce,
but her belly stays still. Then I see her chair—
large black wheels rolled under the table. He leans in,
whispers. She giggles and I think: they must have loved
each other long before her arms stopped moving,
before her legs stopped wrapping around him.
He brings the food close to her lips, her mouth open,
but he teases, turns the spoon, feeds himself.
They both surrender to delight and laughter.
I haven’t seen a woman smile like that before.
I’ve never seen a woman look at a man and love him
while he feeds her, love him in a way that means
no matter what– even if his arms didn’t work,
or if the food never made it to her mouth.
Melody is a mom, Nana, nurse and writer. Her poems have appeared in Segullah, Utah Sings Volume VIII and Utah Voices 2012. She recently convinced her three grown children and their spouses to compose Six-word Memoirs at monthly family dinners in her home. This is perhaps her most noteworthy literary achievement.
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