The Wave

I never thought too hard

 about the curve of my waist,

Just a stop on the path of streaming line that

flows from ear to neck to shoulder to ribs to hips to knees to ankles 

A snug place for the band of my jeans

The shelf I rest my books or hands or nephews on.

But then,

You come back to bed,

Pull the covers down and slip in behind,

Your hand trails sleepy slow

up my back and over

That curve

A wave cresting the sloping shore

The sun peaking over the lip of the earth

Hand resting safe on the soft bump of my belly 

A cradle for your forearm

As you cradle me.