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November?s Crescent |
I.
I wake to the wishbone of your back,
smooth my palm in the flat land
between your shoulders.
II.
At the market
Where bulbous pomegranates spill
From a basket I hold one -
Skin split. Seeds bulge ...
III.
We walk in the brisk air,
swish our feet in the leaves,
color everywhere.
I pick out a bright red one.
Your hands thrust deep into pockets
In an olive overcoat the light
in your hair is autumn.
IV.
On a cold evening.
We drive to the ocean.
I sip sweet soothing chamomile.
The moon is golden, tilted on its crescent
As though it had thrust out a hip, half rocked,
About to swing back.
V.
I knead pastry and think
about your thumbs
pressed against my clavicle.
Stuff mushrooms:
My spine scooped
into the curve of your body.
Grate fresh ginger - hold the hard
cool spice of it. Peel the skin
from red apples. Feel their roundness, their weight.
I chop herbs. I whip cream - until it spits at me.
The oven warms, opens, closes, bakes ...
We arrive with each small moment.
copyright 2004
Charlotte
O'Brien |
