I.
I am sandalwood, rooted in you.
Treading the forest of my bare limbs,
you reap, by handfuls, what you can,
leaving the rest for another to gather.

II.
Blessed with coppery skin,
I comfort you with apricots,
cool you with embers of perspiration.
Your arms drop from my hips like dried petals.

III.
I wake to the sound of cedar rain,
thirsting the salt of your skin.
Sculpting bread, I imagine your torso,
the ceramic perfection of twin thighs.

IV.
With the patience of a glassblower,
I wander galleries of your absence,
spinning grief into prisms
for windows facing the East.

V.
On film I seek to capture sounds of you:
the trochaic pentameter of your breath,
describing the taste of you hair,
echoes of a wishbone breaking.

VI.
Your hands, like warm liquid on my face,
refuse to evaporate when withdrawn.
I want to erase you body
before it spreads elsewhere.

VII.
I settle into myself like
the finest silver of a distant country.
My belly, soft as six a.m. dough, rises.
The geese will return in a few months without you.

© 2002 Shelly Reed