Your lip an abstraction of iris always arousing
the question of the bed. Which goodbye lasts?
Only yesterday my hands rich with dirt. I told you
Milkweed is my new salvation addiction. You know
I always need to save something, to control it.
I can make a pollen island, make your collarbone
a spiritual landscape, the air around us orange
and alive. The shape you left in the sheets
a Rorschach I read as a rattlesnake’s skeleton
in the silverware drawer, no, a fire in a cabin,
no, a cabin on fire, the absence it will make.
But look at me now, my heat signature a whole
bouquet of howling, straddling scarves of smoke.
It’s O.K. that it’s over. Leaving is a lesson of
pleasure. My ribs, sets of parentheses. My heart,
an aside, an apple ready for the twist. My legs
around your hips, a pillory, our shame public
to the night. Tulip shadows on the nightstand,
an apology marooned and lightless, each bite
mark on your shoulder synonymous with grief.
You ask me to brush the match against the red
phosphorus of Goodbye in a way that makes
you believe it. I ask to be the one on top, the one
struck bright when God pours out the lightning.
"fuel" - Google News
August 10, 2020 at 05:02PM
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“Aubade as Fuel,” by Traci Brimhall - The New Yorker
"fuel" - Google News
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