my damask Chinese
robe, strands of ripened red,
his arms were warm, his eyes
were brown and light.
He sees outside the
stenciled lines into
the bottled colors, my
overlays of jewel-toned
glass, fired
within his kiln. His chills
run down my skin
run down his own, he
presses close against my
shuddering. Until I can
again, be still.
And I look into the sky
of monochromaticity
and I
wait for greens and blues
beneath the waves to reach
the light. And I want to be the
rainbow; I want to be
the moonbow, but I'm just
its curved reflection
on the wet of sand
below
and he presses close
against my shuddering.
Until I can again
be still.
M
Madison
06
sept 03