Wednesday, February 19, 2025

After Summer Fell Apart by Yusef Komunyakaa

 After Summer Fell Apart

 

I can’t touch you.

His face always returns;

we exchange long looks

in each bad dream

& what I see, my God.

Honey, sweetheart,

I hold you against me

but nothing works.

Two boats moored,

rocking between nowhere

& nowhere.

A bone inside me whispers

maybe tonight,

but I keep thinking

about the two men wrestling nude

in Lawrence’s Women in Love.

I can’t get past

reels of breath unwinding.

He has you. Now

he doesn’t. He has you

again. Now he doesn’t.

 

You’re at the edge of azaleas

shaken loose by a word.

I see your rose-colored

skirt unfurl.

He has a knife

to your throat,

night birds come back

to their branches.

A hard wind raps at the door,

the new year prowling

in a black overcoat.

It’s been six months

since we made love.

Tonight I look at you

hugging the pillow,

half smiling in your sleep.

I want to shake you & ask

who. Again I touch myself,

unashamed, until

his face comes into focus.

He’s stolen something

from me & I don’t know

if it has a name or not—

like counting your ribs

with one foolish hand

& mine with the other.

 



No comments:

Post a Comment

Note: Only a member of this blog may post a comment.