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| demitasse
There
are things she
can't remember—the bills
the demitasse of
strong
black coffee growing
cold on a drop-leaf table.
But in early mornings, late
in another summer
she remembers his
face
in
hyperrealism.
She
remembers his love,
letting it in
like daylight
through a
vertical
blind.
Winters and summers
and winters again have poured
into her
room, linear
blocks of light. Winters
and summers and
winters have died.
Still
she can feel the cup of his hands
on her skin.
His
arms around her, homed
to her waist, a perch in waiting.
The sounds of summer
collapse into the sea beneath the
beauty
of the sun.
Her
smile, he knew.
And it returns,
catching as
quick
as a breath,
alive—a hummingbird
against the windowglass.
Through
the wooden
blinds
a film of air,
translucent
as
it is, throws
light
against a thousand tiny drops
of dust floating in the sitting room.
She
reaches
to the thin louver dowel to
turn the slats and it is gone.
Winters
and summers and winters
again, have died.
Winters and summers
and
winters again are born.
Mia Moore
oct 1 2000 |
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