Sunday, September 28, 2014

for those who navigate these meshes

She sits on the bed, slowly laying out cards
on her cherry lapboard.

A glass of Vinho Verde shines on the half moon bedside table,
Something sweet and baroque twists from the clock radio.

She’s lovely, in her way, in midnight blue palazzo pants
dotted with little stars.  I get lost in their drape
that butterflies down her legs, crossed at her ankles.

There’s a fussy buzz of some winged creature
caught in the milk white lamp globe, fusing with the lute and harp.

The faint scent of blooms she picked floats my way—
lily-like Hosta blossoms, white and trumpeting,
a cluster of butter yellow bell-shaped flowers that grow in the yard,
some herbaceous Bee Balm in plummy spikes. 

She glances at me, checking to see how disrupted I am
from my own pursuit in a book, brushing her hair back
from where it’s fallen across her black crop top.

I was in the hills above Sarajevo, looking down on red roofs and stone streets,
fingering my Browning, but I find myself moving closer to her,
brushing against the small swath of skin on her belly. 
Feeling the luxury and warmth of it, of her,

Believing that she spells out joy for me
in a mysterious tattoo beneath my touch,
as she stretches her legs out to greet mine.

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