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The Thirsty Nighttime

from / by Yxu

/

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my interest
entered in her rest,
it rested in her breath,
caressed her inner breast.
when we were growing up
and the nighttime was thirsty,
my palms
were the turning of the aspens,
the branches
the cracks on a pond
so fragile
that it's gasping.

and she's grasping me.
grappling,
the season comes.
her eyes collapse closed,
half-flutter,
tap stutter,
and tango.

the leaves fell
silent,
leaving the ground
tissue paper vibrant.
so we that were walking on
stained glass windows.
and in those
winters before men wrote,
our legs
roots,
our limbs
spoke
of nights
hued the dye
of blueberry bruised thighs:
watercolor violet
blossom as an iris,
black so bright
that it promises to blind us.

and the moonlight was a curtain.
your fingers on my legs
was the spring shore
reclaiming what it lost.
lake of air in east alabama
for the rest of our lives
was the last sphere of
god.
the negative space
between our bodies
and the blankets
was its
ghost.

(it cannot last.
that is why
we why we love eachother.
that is why
we do this when we can.)

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from /, released May 1, 2011

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