Two years gone.
Two years gone, except for moments
in the rain. Moments of days or
weekends or even weeks, but still
only moments. Always ending.
Always holding their breath,
waiting for the certain end.
Now you are here.
Now you are here and things
are different. Things are the same
— I wake, eat, work, walk, sleep. But.
I wake with the slightly
musty, cinnamon and sesame
scent of you clinging to the sheets.
I eat breakfast — the butter
on my toast brings cream to my
thighs, the jam dribbles juice
and I am biting my lip, leaning
against the kitchen counter with
hips pressed flat against cold tile,
aching. I have forgotten how
to walk. I am dancing while I walk.
I am swaying hips and letting my
breasts lead and seducing the air
against my throat as I walk.
When I sleep, the mattress is
jealous of intruding sheets that
cling to my curving body, pulsing
and whispering in the dark.
And the work?
Well, the work went well enough
with you away, after all. Some learning,
and a great deal of time for practice.
Progress was made, no doubt.
But it was, the critics admit, a touch
arid. Chilled. Overly restrained.
Three steps from the precipice,
close enough to lean over and feel
stomach churning, but not a step further.
Now you have returned,
my body is triumphant,
throat, skin, stomach, thighs…
and I am falling.
July 6, 1998