by Lesly Bries
It was the Saturday night drive
when the night, heavy velvet
in your hands, studded silver,
spread a cloak of silence over our hands.
I don’t feel it anymore.
And these things, they hurt
because of the goneness of them, the no-moreness of them,
how memories built on concrete castles,
those soft-focus afternoons when you tickled
my cheek with a mango leaf, pressed
the cold scoop of berries-and-cream to my lips
and covered my stomach with kisses,
when it was enough to hear no answer
even as my words wrenched my heart, salt and bare.
It was enough.
Our lips trace lines out of habit but not need.
When I dipped my mouth into the crook of your neck
and drank from a secret well,
found the Big Dipper on your back.
It was belonging. Am I to be
the fear beneath your blankets,
the ghost in the bed? Take me back
to before-expectation, during-desire, after-all,
I feel it slipping, I feel my fingers