Para Mi Esposa

You kneel and faintly move
your cloying scent,
not cinnamon or clove,
Nor burning mint,

but earthen, like the dust,
or pungent brine;
or like the rain, or rust,
or musk of pine.

I cup my lips and quench
a parching thirst
while from your throat I wrench
a gasping burst

of Spanish expletives
that shock my wits;
and yet your grace survives
such aspirates.