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SplintersLosing distinction in the dusk, you turnedto me and your body refracted a moan that blinded, crested through me and covered the horizon, blotting lights and the evening trawlers. You turned again, closed into the splinter of your body, left a wash of bleats blinking on my throat. Like the woman who clawed her child's photograph off the wall, I said you'd drown when you left. In a store, I turned from a clerk and found it—the bottom of my self punched through. People walked on the marble floor and I saw how my footing dissolved as the gape flooded and drained and wouldn't close. How I smoothed the edge of your cheek. How you wound your fingers in my hair when the wind blew it in your face. |
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Issue #15, April, 2000 :
Santa Fe Poetry Broadside.