where beads of early evening damp
cling to our skin - there the sticky
semblance of a connection takes root.
your eyes have been darting back and
forth between the lines of something
that never quite became common to us.
hardly the stuff of midterms these verses.
and they aren't verses. we haven't
any secrets. fingers so warm the ink
smears onto them in the outline of
words. what the weekend brought:
fields of sparrows and long grass
where a winery once stood. we
wondered what struck it down: hurricane,
lightning, fire? torn through
three mountain passes in two days.
oh. the river. white sand. always the
words of a woman in love written on rapid waters.
where beads of early morning damp
cling to our skin - here morning
takes flight, sails out, and understanding takes root.
this is a memory of when we were up all night
without sleep and the radio talks pilgrimages
in the background, long before we made a single promise,
loaned each other verses in books that were not quite meant.
when after those pine trees
that cabin, where we hadn't
any secrets. after your warm fingers
smeared the outline of me past
recognition. i do not mind if any weekend tosses
fields at us, or wine, curry spices in shoeboxes
and your whisper half crushed, half
disbelief:
are you sure this is the first time
you've done this?
If you have enjoyed Jennifer Becker's Poetry, then please be certain to e-mail her at reed[at]speakeasy.org and thank her for posting her Work.
Click here for a list of all of Jennifer Becker's Stories and Poetry at Sapphic Voices Authoresses.
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