Indian Paintbrush

Indian Paintbrush 

Like the cat who sleeps 
on my bed, you lie curled 
in the warmth my body left. 

You linger in my hair, in my 
perfume. The covers keep 
your rare orchid in memory. 

The bed breathes
when I’m not in it, waiting
like silver water for me.

I’ll slip in again, to rouse
your purring belly with the
sun-stone of my hand.