What you said to me rides huddled,
flint smuggled through borders,
saddlebag strapped to my sternum like arms
around an oak tree in a storm.
You left me on the platform
as unclaimed freight, breath
like buckets on a water wheel.
***
Florets stand in tepid water on the stovetop,
knife and cutting board splay across the counter.
The telephone abides the space between us as
the red pepper cymbals of daybreak
crash against the windows in the room.
Hot tea, cinnamon toast, a bath of tea lights
and beads—all thoughts lacking motion.
What you said to me interlopes
production, the normal trove
of satisfactory hours.
***
This loiters like gravity, like bleach dyeing
snow. The morning collapses to its knees,
throws its hands together and bawls
tropical petals long into the afternoon.
Erika
:: The life and times of she who happens to be gay::
writes here
and you can follow her on Twitter here
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