12
-13
OnceOne day the sunlight will fill the morningand you'll drop the paring knife. The unfinished fruit in your hands will slip and fall away... unbidden will rise a voice chill and heavy, as if from your waiting grave: "it needn't have turned out this way." The faint sheen of hair on your skin capturing the sunlight will also say there were hands once to run above us like water hands which rubbed and soothed and set to sleep the slight muscles of the arms and back and legs. The scalp will say once in those palms the hair streamed like a breeze, like the wind. Once, once the body will say and the heart will beat against your ribs seeking furiously the palm which held it, seeking the other cooing dove which once beat beside it. In your silence you will sway and laugh alone in your kitchen at what you gave away. |
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Issue #13, January, 2000 :
Santa Fe Poetry Broadside.