Margrét
I wanted to photograph you
in every hot spring in Iceland.
Catch water drops clinging
to the opening of your pores
as if your perfect flushed skin
were the very promise of life.
I wanted to proclaim you
from the mole at the right of your lower lip
to your butcher-like Valkyrie eyes
that blonde pride hidden from them
in cloudy scarves that even I
who know each inch of your body
can not quite grasp or define.
You sat for my photos by turn
shy, exhilarated, exasperated, bored
until you learned to flirt with the camera.
Then it was you, beyond the issuing steam
undressing me, my coat and leather straps
my tripod lurching on uneven ground
at your look of vague displeasure.