Ask It
Ask it
by C. L. Higgins
Ask if you have my
heart one last time
and I might say yes
in a manner of
speaking.
Love’s fatal flaw is
having to hear it
said aloud.
Having to make words
form around
impulse and
bloodheat
and the next chance
encounter.
The next
dewars-and-water-logged
latenight hot tub
where words slip off
tongues easily
as the glass of ice
from the edge of the
tub.
Words damp between
the sheets, words
splashed on shower
tiles and
condensed on oak
bedside tables,
words
like stumbled-over
dreams
in the early morning
hours.
Ask one more time if
I remember saying
the words you took
how many months to
get from me
my eyes closed, the
bed
dry as any other
dawn.
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