243 Readings | 4 Ratings

Winter

I dared you to tell me what you could not
say and you did, then, fecund, fucking

madly behind drawn blinds, there was no day
or night in the noisy bed. Ever contrary, you

were in the frigid air a poinsettia blooming,
simple and naked, big body laid atop

sheets, heat broken. It was winter,
the short days lent themselves to talk,

and frozen, the river paddled by night stood
erect in peaks of ice. The afternoons

grew longer and the river ran again, the water
rushing, my waters quickening unplanned.
Posted 01/07/14
From "Turn," (Sibling Rivalry Press, 2014). First published at Melusine.
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