Somewhere between
the pasta
and the tira mi su, I felt you
half-letting go of me last night,
as I have half-come, half-
gone from the start.
        All night the moon
 rained, pushing its force
 from the west, from the north.
 I dreamed of fire in my hands
 and my mother watched
 as I cried. The morning
 whispered, waking us, leg over leg,
 feet fastened.
 It's been hours
 since your words swept
 soft across my lips, across my
 hair as it teased
 against your chest.
 You chose your words like a
 full-bodied red,
 letting them breathe, drinking
 their sounds back in
 from my skin.
       The morning is water-logged,
 heavy as a pregnant breast.
 It spills in thought, woven
 from a string of windflower petals,
 falling to the ground
 of you.
 

20 feb 03
M Madison