poem draft

night is quiet
it’s velvety blackness
it is my arm sinouous
around her
surprisingly sylphlike
frame. night is talking
until sleep overtakes
us, peaceful & safe.

it is falling
asleep and blurred
edges of dreams and
bodies jerking awake

to describe
standing on a ledge
very high outside
almost like the empire state building
and there was traffic below
it was very new york
in the 30’s
it was steely and frightening
& i was terrified

or another night
we were
standing in her room
and she was saying
“i’m not ready” to me
and the words
slipping from
between her lips
are shining grains
of sand in my palm
i sprinkled them
gingerly into
a pearly seashell
and tucked it away in
a red curio cabinet
just the right size.
it had an elaborate metal
clasp and painted detailing
just like
my grandmother’s jewelry box

in her bed at
night, we are
honeysuckle overgrowing
the matresses,
sheets and warm blankets
vines tangling into
each other.
and we pull hesitantly
at each other’s
fragile blossoms
to find the sweet
nectar hidden within.