Yours

There are so many men to be,
soldier, father, lover, son,
hunter, elder, lead guitarist.
I've thought for so long
I wanted to be a shaman,
whizzing a stone on a gut line overhead,
preparing to ride the sound
to where the spirit itself is fathered.

But I choose to be your husband,
on this winding pebble road with you,
to the dusty edge of the land by the sparkling sea,
with the sun in between our lips,
the tender sting of infinity on our toes,
and the falling petals of the flowers I bring you.

I want to be your husband in black night,
when the spirit is wounded,
and medicine is weak, but adequate.
I want to open the door you draw in your dream,
to find you grinding yourself into coffee.

I want to be your husband with our children
and the things in the dark woods that smell them,
set a smudge out there to keep them safe
while they rest for their winding roads, and pray they
find us, find others, pick up the sick on the way,
and plant grandchildren as the spirit sees fit.