Even Strangers are Not Strangers
Winter’s early evening, and I pull two duvets like clouds
of moonlight above our shoulders. Our bodies fall into
formation.\
Even the lamps are spellbound. I’ve said a hundred prayers
to her knees, and now, I’m at work beating drums for our
future,
making a ceremony of my dark, firm hands.
Outside, thick skeins of black branches sway woozily.
I’m thinking of the last orange red apple I bit into, thorn
bushes,
and wooden scented vineyards in Sardinia, charms beneath
fingernails. What color is that cry trickling from her
mouth?
In our sacred grove, we leave melodies singing on each
other’s skin.
from Memorious
(2008)