Her body’s uncumbersome here in my lap, less heft
than a box of Perfection apricots in July, only limp,
unmoving, a hot fevered thing. A bloom left too long
out of water. A heap of short breath. A pile of a girl.
Her eyelids, weighted. Her gaze obnubilates. Cheeks
ruddy. Mouth open. Lips pale. She wants nothing
but to be cradled, nursed, held closely to naked skin.
She whimpers, gasps for air, and wrestles to be nearer again.

It is not elegant, this love full of mucous, drool and bile.
But that’s not the wall. There are places I’d wanted to go
tomorrow. I let self pity make me small. I bite at my wants,
invite them to leave, try to make space for dawn to enter
my thoughts. And it does, slowly, with plenty of clouds.
All day the sky arrives in me. Things settle. I don’t know how.


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