when we spoke late
that night
my voice the
unfurling little frond
your words wrapped
in cumulus clouds
I
commented on your lack of accent
you drove for
hours on
the day that my hot
hands
smelled of garlic and
finely minced shallots
freshly washed
sheets on the bed
with a hint of delicious night
it was 98 degrees
in the shade
you acted as if
you weren’t afraid
were we as absolute as the sky?
you pretended I didn’t
scare you half to death
the morning you drove
east
oxygen crept slowly
from every room
slipped from
under the doorways
the barometric
pressure drew me to the floor
I can’t remember
if I asked you to come back
when we spoke late
that night
my voice the branch
and yours the vapor
we were actors and thieves
adding the seconds to moments
we didn’t fathom broken
glass
© 12.1.2015 heather brager
