I send her out
into the cold
dark night. She catches
a bus, rides to the edge
of town, enters a bar.
Imagine her
asking the barman
for a glass of wine,
knocking it back
in one. See her hair,
nearly black
in the dim room, skin
translucent. Pretty
in a strange sort of way
the men think.
They sit with their backs
against the wall, watch her
order a second, cross
the floor, take a seat.
Meanwhile, I am safe
and warm at home.
Most days I sit here, planning
her next move, wondering
if I should cut my hair,
my own too long
in the mirror we share.
Meanwhile, she is choosing
a tune on the jukebox.
Are You Lonesome Tonight?
The quarter clinks into the slot,
the mechanical hand lifts
the black disk, slips it
in place. The arm swivels
over the spinning vinyl,
needle poised.
The men check out
her ass, her legs.
Skirt�s too short,
I think, pulling mine
over my knees.
Gorse
I breathe its scent, like sweat
on skin. The rain has brought it out.
Yellow settles on my scarf, too yellow,
a warning. Its branches shimmer water,
buds tight to bursting. Beyond the green stem,
its lobed leaves, I can see the thorns, daggered
in branches that anchor it to earth.
It owns this place.
I would like to plant
my fingers deep like roots, spread
like a dark stain, vigorous and hearty.
I would like to shed my petals, my silk touch,
before the final sharp prick
that draws blood. I trespass here,
I am only passing through. I close
my eyes and see an afterlight, a shock of yellow.
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