Under a tangled arch
of willow, ivy, and rose,
she presses me back,
back, against the rich loam, back,
her fingers sly, her smile arch,
her lips tipped with rose.
Ever since the moon rose
she has loved me well: my back
is a bow, a lover’s arch.
I arch my neck, cursing the rose-tinged dawn that calls her back.
A tritina for this month’s Poetry Slam retrospective and YeahWrite’s 400th consecutive week!
Nights like this, I sleep naked, seeking relief in the coolness of empty sheets. I wake to the droning of cicadas, the yearning for rain, the ache of desire and the taste of your name in my mouth.
Seven hours ago I walked with you in the moonlight. We dallied until only a handful of stars were left: the last vestiges of night. Now the sky is pink and waiting; morning holds its breath.
Seven hours is not enough to make up for all the lost years.
My mother doesn’t believe me. How I see you at night in that instant before my eyes adjust to the dark. I didn’t open the window. I didn’t move that chair.
“Don’t leave me,” I had begged, graveside. It is just like you, you bastard, to listen this time.
All the stars that crowd the ether—
Travel routes which are reliant
On the plan prescribed by nature.
Men’s desires have deceived her
As she dwindles, meek and pliant,
Though I bid her stay defiant.
Once the pivot passed beneath her
Never could she make a detour.