You kneel in the
kitchen garden—
white dress
blue shawl
bare feet—
on a Sunday
free of services
save for warm
gingerbread
and the prayer
of bees
for you know
and I know
both
a solitude
of sea
and the power
of Vesuvius
are more
easily
found
at home.
Well,
the keepers
of your story
denied
your earthy
defiance
and erased
your love
for Sue.
They had
their agendas
and I have
mine
but it’s simple:
connect.
So I drive
to Amherst
early
under silhouette
portraits
smudged
by the
thumb of god
against
a brightening
sky
that shade
of blue
whose fingers
undo buttons
and laces.
This sky
was made
for lovers,
for tumbled hair
and tousled breath.
I will sit
in your parlor
with your words
in my mouth
sweet
entanglement
of thought
and feeling.
There are no
recluse
spinsters
here.
Photo by Esther Chilcutt
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