For the first time,
I face the edge of
me & the world,
drawn like a line
of Conté red
on pale paper:
If I cross I’m dead.
Holding my arms over
bowed head, all these
years of self defense,
I didn’t know
there was a line to see.
I stand alone
against my own two
dimensions.
My future comes
together in
a twilit night.
My lost footsteps
echo.
All the spaces
without my voice
hear you sing.
In them,
my breaths come
slow & deep.
Over my heart,
yes, above my
breasts,
your handprints
burn.
That’s how I know
you’ve seen your own
red line
always.
There,
down your
left hip,
my tongue
wants to slide,
fitting my litheness
to yours.
In your hands,
my world shifts
to a country house,
old orchards,
and high grasses;
a gate painted
red & white like
a Venetian mooring
pole,
and me, running
sandal-shod;
the taste of rain
and flowers;
the salted taste
of you.
A sketch of
what I could
have been.
© 26 Feb 2008, Heather Quinn, all rights reserved
