slowly now, darling;

"do you remember last year's ice storm" i said?
we came home to the japanese maple lying
scattered across the drive, its limbs that shaded
us through summer broken, sodden bark stark
against blinding snow drifts. your lips opened --
to speak? to kiss? but the words were
lost in the echoing crack as the last branches
collapsed at our feet. a rabbit sprinted across
the ground, startled, tiny heart racing to burst
free of its brittle confines.

there was ice on the radiator this morning.
i woke up pressed against your back and
our heartbeats were no longer in sync. the
nights are long, blood thickens and we
go through the motions. your knee in the
small of my back, lips soft, brushing up
my spine and as the sun goes down you
wouldn't meet my eyes. i enjoy the chase
but without the light i am content to play
at being your prey.

i've been counting the days, carving notches
on our bedpost. the hunter has chased the
pleiades from the sky -- i watch him nightly
from our windowsill and dream of the warmth
of him, wood smoke and ash on my skin and
lepus curled up in my lap. i eat pomegranate
seeds and wonder how everything stays the same.
we've not spoken in sixty two days and i
have returned to the wild.

i listened for him last night, my silent
blood-stained boy, orion, and when i woke in the
morning the fires had burned to ash,
paw prints sprinting away from our bed as my
heart races and my blood runs warm again.
you stirred, light rustling of cotton and
faint bird song and we woke to the
finale of the sisters' first soiree.

08/25/2008

Posted on 08/26/2008
Copyright © 2025 Sophia Grace