Arc

I walk behind him along Glasgow towards Belmot village, past the Uniroyal plant where they are boiling kittens in tar or whatever makes that smell some days. Levis and a flannel shirt, backpack and sneaks. A mohawk with only a little gell in it, soft as the crest of a bird. The rest of his hair is coming in, a brown fuzz. That combination of art and artlessness -- I feel an arc of tenderness toward him -- artful and artless like a beauty in no makeup with her hair bound back, a girl learning lipstick's cupid bow, my husband sprawled sleeping, with a fold of moonlight across his shoulders and and the sheet across the narrow of his back.