Enfolded in that
oblong yellow 4 p.m. light
that hides as much as it discloses,
I watched you sleep
in another woman’s bed,
surrounded by trunks and cardboard boxes,
the detritus of lives lived obliquely,
always only half unpacked.
On the floor in the corner,
I read poetry,
my cheek caressing
the cool cinderblock wall.
Across the room, dingy sheets
twisted around your legs and shoulders,
you writhed and moaned,
laced between the grubby fingers
of a late May fever dream.
A blowing branch hid the
ripe nectarine of the sun.
Sweat traced its sticky fingers
down my back, and I was
suddenly reminded of the
golden skin of the one you love.
That was why I fled the room
as your face so recently fled
from my dreams.
Copyright (c) 2001
by Beth Kinderman. This is my original
work, so please respect it.