I crack open your poetry
rib by rib
dip my tongue
into its sticky heart
what no one can touch –
your voice
kisses my sin
I blush
Love’s Labours Lost
You are standing in my bedroom doorway
with crooked nose and grin.
Surprisingly, you are 17
with bare, muscular arms
(football arms) and
a full head of dark curly hair;
then suddenly
you are 29
fatter in the middle
thinner in the hair;
then 45,
the years heavier still.
You must be a trick of light
or of memory –
you are not here at all.
(You are long gone.)
Only the doorway is the same.
I curl myself up like a fist
clutching a pillow to my chest
as if it were you
alive and breathing
My heart clenches
and cramps
a dark stone
over and over
I breathe out
releasing a howl
wet and
I breathe in
breathe in
rocking myself to sleep
© Cynthia Linville