The air is keen,
palpable.
Its stringed
instrumentplays throughout the house.
The first
chord
is the is glide
of silk.A woman moves in her robe
toward the bed. Pale hair
falls along pale sleeves;
she becomes
the window’s moonlight.
The second
chord
is the pulse of
bone.A man turns exposing
his shoulder to the light.
Throbbing with pain,
he longs for
her handto rub in soft heat.
The third
chord
is the burst of
wood.A fire lights the room
as cherry crackles
into fragrance and flame.
Earlier, she
carried kindling
in from the
porch.and snapped several branches
Her fingers trembled.
The maroon bark
felt slippery
as The New Year’s promise.
And the fourth
chord
is the stress of
stone.A crack widens on the steps,
a void waiting to fill
with pine needles
or sparrow’s down.
No comments:
Post a Comment