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.
somewhere around day nine
it all falls apart,
one of those days where you can’t
face the world with straight
eyes and there’s nothing
for it but to drive right at the sun, right
as it sets, like some
old cowboy in some old movie
off to some damn
the night holds
its own in borrowed starlight til
you can reach the river
and the morning sun
coming down through the first
of the new leaves.
trace footprints in wet sand.
tell yourself he loves you.
fish the poem from the water.