At the all night pancake
house
the plastic seats are scarred
the water glasses etched
by 1000 washings. We connect
eagerly, hurried in from opposite directions,
pale and damp. At home,
we each have someone perfect
we can’t trust—
striped shirts, blond wrists.
Hunched over our cups
we remember mouth-watering days
at the river. Mayflies hover
on slack eddies, the sun
leaches all colors to olive drab.
Should I ask if you still believe
in wet kisses rising to the surface
like catfish? Should I say
I’m the same hungry princess,
prying at the sticky menu
where I wish to find our story,
read it out loud to discover
what comes after happy?
Is it the picture of me lying
on your chest? That sliding
touch? Is it the kiss that changes
your face? Imagine us.
How it will be to open our ribs,
to gather in the small, dark frogs.
Copyright © 1999
Wendy Carlisle
All Rights Reserved |
