You rise because
it's morning. No,

because you had
the nightmare again
where she moves
slow to the door

and you're bare
on the bed.


Where, in the hall she is
leaning with her
forehead on the wall,
her white back to you-

Where, her chalk outline
is kneeling on the floor,
or in the doorway
caught in mid-walk,

the weight of her
carried over the threshold.

You wonder
if she'll move
close and slide
against the grain,

stand still
the hair of your arms,
the wide part of her
on your lap,

the wet of you both
on her thighs.


You wonder when
your eyes will open,
because she'll ride
this until morning. No,


because she'll ride
until it's dry.

04/02/2003

Author's Note: found poetry via LJ.

Posted on 10/24/2003
Copyright © 2024 Christina Gleason