this: the summersmell
of sun’s warmth smoothed
on entwined skins & their mattress promises;
his weight against the crescent of your womb
& peach moonshine on late indian half-full
nights, amber-fingered and dripping
like candleflame through open windows;
the sweat that beads on scars; the slight lightening
of irides from hardwood to hazel
in riverlight on a Sunday afternoon
under a sky like September
with clouds like a ribcage
spread in a deeper inhale.
it is enough to make you feel like drowning,
like you are being brought back
to life. some days they can pull you
from the pull of the water.
some days you simply sink.
In Nepal, they are dead by the thousands,
yet at night, in the epic tragedy of our bed,
they are hardly spared a thought as we fight
for the happiness so long missed. I wanted
this to be an easy poem to write: all sweeping
sentiment and unfolded perspective, laundry
tossed on the couch and handily sorted.
I, after all, have no burials to plan, no body to bear.
Survival is too far a concept to be bought dear,
though, and I am left with this landslide
of vague loneliness, wishing only for you
to hold me, for a kindness, for a plane ticket
to Katmandu. There are all kinds of earthquakes,
love; some nearer home than others.
Some days it is harder to love you
than others. Easter is over and done,
blossoms of bright azalea and snow-
white dogwood popping out around corners
like promises, but there are still so many crosses.
Afternoon thunderstorms rinse away
pollencoats under slaten sunlight, and you
point to the sky. Rainbows have no place in poems,
I think, wondering if happy endings are things
of myth, what secrets you still keep
as we lay beat to beat at day’s dying. My arms,
aching and taxed, reach with hesitance
in the darkness. I sleep drugged, dreaming
of escape routes, of a heart not so leaden to bear.