Her Art
I picked the wrong hand.
The wooden nickel was under
her tongue. She slapped
my attention away and it
melted into
the sand. When the pain
subsided like a ship
on the horizon I collected
my clothes and my
self and tried my lips
again. She tasted
like winter
through a window.
Could anything solid
be that far away? I only
wanted to claim
the weight of water
behind her snow
and ocean. To pocket
the play of her plié.
Or find a little air
to hold on to.
She never gave me the nickel.
The ship slipped into the scrim.
| Alex Chambers |
|
