We are in transit, forever walking between courtesies, forever skirting the edges of our discomfort. You stop to take a breath, to tie your shoe. I urge you on. Look, I say. Home is over the next ridge. No, you say. Home is in our hands.
This microstory borrows a line from the poem she knows sacrifice so well by Australian Indigenous poet Dakota Feirer.
“On my word.” The Admiral spoke without rancor.
“Yes, ma’am.” My hand hovered above the console. The bridge was silent; everyone was waiting for me. This could start the end of everything.
“Go,” she said. I pushed the button.
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.