I am passing through my neighbor’s
backyard, and I stop, because
her patio door is open. The sun
is there, pouring over a table
and chairs, all those rhododendrons
and pollen. In all that light, I can see
up the stairs and into
her living room, where the woman
is sleeping on her couch, bare feet crossed
and dangling off the end. Pink,
chipped toenails. In her sleep, she kisses
her knuckles, individually.
Stars on her hair.
I wonder where she is,
when she is, and who is kissing
her hands—so slowly. The trees here
are quiet, almost courteous. They watch
over my shoulders. She moans
in her sleep. We are all such beautiful soldiers.