Woodcome

Beth
Woodcome

Our Spring Has Gone Tired

We can hear moonlight stuck

in pickling jars.

 

We can see scars on the newly painted walls.

I did not predict this sort of
house for us.  

 

We want to rewind this room

to make love again in the
doorway

 

that is gone since we have turned
around.

It’s like an ocean here

 

and I can hardly believe

in the sun, in dry
wind.

 

There’s nothing strange about him

touching me, except that it is
happening

 

and the kitchen hasn’t turned itself

over to sparrows yet.

 

We will sit and watch

for any space between us

 

to show up — endanger itself

so that we can understand

 

the trauma of our doorknobs

and salt
shakers.

return
to SHAMPOO issue #1