Look over your shoulder for the hustle of words.

Saturday, February 13, 2010

Grip

There is no way of holding a pillow
to make it feel as flesh does.
in the night, my arms search and find only
hollow spaces.
my fingers push into a rift.

and in the moments when i am waking
and you are sleeping elsewhere
i remember
how you lay behind me
after making love.

the knit together slate of your hands
resting just below my belly, cupping.
your touch more tender for
the loss, the losing.
the heat leaving our bodies,
our heaving chests
slowing.

your cock would brush me -
a gentle creature, delicate as crepe paper,
resting shyly near my back;
my breasts naked to the window's
diminutive sheaf of air;
and shivers in my spine.
the unity of breath, the foggy
scent we owned together.

all this comes in, over me; tidal
and sometimes as
a dark tsunami curved towards me.
wanting to dash my life out.

a stone for each memory,
heavy in the foam.

1 comment:

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