Where now does the body
go (pillow between
your legs is not me) the
feet know, scratch at
the surface of the sheet,
the heat underneath
a victory, space
finally defeated.
Your back (turned away, soft
wall) is all secrets. Each
spot counted aligns to
another name. I lay
out a hand, take it,
I say, let my lines make
their mark there (You move,
moan through
a syllable that is
not me). The groove
down your middle, shallow
split of rib-
cage, rises,
settles in, my hand
once met you there and
was enough, I am
thinking. My thought is not
my hand. (Facing me,
breath sweet needle
bursts) the curse is
in the closeness.
I try to breathe in and in
and in; air an ocean,
salt, seaweed, rose-hips.
(Your round lower lip
curls slightly in:
“Rise,” I think it is
saying) I rise, my
parts all re-align
ing. Outside, silence is
a disguise—sparrow
finds her perfect
perch, worm rolls toward
the ivy shade. (You,
now spark of eyes,
breasts, shoulder, neck,
white stones of a river-
bed) your body
says, simply, not time
yet, rest, rest, rest, rest.