When I was young I asked for a toy gun.
My father said guns were not to be toyed with.

~Mark of a Mistress~

I have a memory of her walking away
That shocks my breath
Into submission.
Gravel crushed by the
Balls of her feet when she turned.
Black hair softening my knees.

I have a memory of her
Applying lipstick in the mirror
While I put on creased clothes
From the evening before.
Late for work watching her green eyes
The impulse to scrape the ice
From her windshield
Which I never did.

A memory of her arms
Wrapping around my waist
The warmth of a cheek against my neck.
Letting eggs burn
Because appetites didn't bend
In that direction.

Air between my fingers
Running over her collarbone.
My hand finding comfort
On her hip
When she drew me in
Locking our ankles together.
The pressure of brown leather
Across my wrists
Holding me up like a puppet
And a line of blood
Trailing down my back.

Memories a jet stream.
A heart a broken plate
While dreams spill through a slotted spoon.
A cigarette to burn a lesson in the lungs
And a cup of coffee
To wash it all
Down the drain.

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Though her forward facing image
Drifts
Steadily away from unfolded arms,
A sweetness
Foreign to heart
Is found
In the distance that divides
Like rising water in a porcelain tub.
Knowledge of Time,
Ever
Pulling
On our stopper,
Makes a bold mind
Mute of tongue
And sends urgency
Through breathless lips that long
For hers.
If steam from glances
Could fog mirrors
On which to write subtle poetry,
Crisp mountain air
Would abruptly erase
What fingers
Retrace
To bring her home again.
And though her forward facing image
Drifts
Steadily away from unfolded arms,
A calm
Familiar to heart
Can be found
In the way brown hair
Spills over a sleeping shoulder
Like water wept from basin’s edge.
Found in waking eyes
That address his blue horizon
With a meadow of lusty green
And fashioned memories that slake
Spaces left unoccupied
From a life
Before he knew her.

For-S

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When she smiles
I am reminded of the night
I rested my hand
On the small of her back.
Traveled up her spine
Fingers pressing past
The marked lack of bra-strap
Continuing
To the space behind her ears
As she lowered her head.

Once, she sat next to me
Slung her leg
Casually
Over my resting knees
And made the blood in my veins
Surrender to ash.

Reeds arise
From my arms
When the knock on my door
Is followed by
The request to uncork her bottle of red.
My taste
Distracted
By the hint of her toes
Through two repotted basil plants.

At night I imagine
Her black hair
Cascading
Over a neighboring empty pillow.
Her body
Wrapped in blankets
To fend off the frost
From the vent above her bed.
And I wonder whether
She knows that I leave my door
Slightly
Open
Were she ever to be in need
Of someone to keep her warm.

Sustenance

If
Blonde braids
Could stretch out to the ocean
Her hair
Would rescue a thousand
Wayfaring men.
Her Seirenes smile,
A beacon of home,
Return restive hearts
From the yawning water they tread.
Return them to the sun drenched
Skin of her breast.
Sailing around the nape of her neck
Cape of Good Hope
My hand,
Metal made blush from
Green eyes,
Would come to rest
On the shore
Of her
Collarbone
Where heart’s pulse,
Though Tempest wrung,
Dissolves bone,
Buckles knee,
Sends
Waves
Through veins,
To anchor
The danger
Hidden
Underneath the ink
In my spine.