(Photo by Margot Williams, London, 13 May 2012)
She takes photos of her ex currying bananas,
yellow curves still unpeeled, lowered arcs
in a lethally red bubble. I never feel any
jealousy about their enduring love, or what
once sparked in her with this woman. I can
trace how it shaped her, and ache to that beauty
as I do all else in her. I still have her smell
on my skin, the dermal memory of her face
pressed against me, the bounce of her accent
from the other room. I know it will fade and
must believe I will have a chance to water
once again our epiphytic flame into fresh stoke,
feel our binary lock into orbit, taste her tea
and fingertips, let her roll through my belly.
Many have survived on less. I have survived
on much less. She filled my pantry with
vivid spices in glass jars, and I will ration
them out over this coming drought.
© Maggie Jochild Written 13 May 2012, 3:15 pm
Posts
1 comment:
Our semi-annual orbit will swing around as surely as night follows day, and that flame will burst again into white heat.
Post a Comment