ISSUE: Summer 1988
I just left them there holding their breath,
summer dripping from their honeyed
muzzles. The wild circles of their
night eyes became taillights and went on without me,
speeding my life backward, faster and faster. I’d rather
have followed that arc of light, but the world blackens
a bouquet of weddings held to the bride’s waist,
talks back to love sunk low. Snow
presses its lips to a mirror,
passing breath from one shadow to the next.
I plan my nights with my face in my hands,
like a serious child making weather turn its back.
It’s more than I counted on, love half dead, this long
hibernation. And here I am, driving on ice,
yelling promises into the night,
wanting to own some wings, some ship,
white sheets sailing small away.
