Lateness
As usual frozen seagulls fly above us every night,
blind I approach our bed in the darkness,
tracing the linear surfaces of the embroidery,
as their long-winged spans shadow the pillow mounds.
The salty residue found on your lips,
Falls off as you ask me the time.
Late, very late, almost too late, sorry,
The journey back was longer than I planned.
The space beside you invites me into its pools.
In a slow shift and quicken foothold,
with exact measure you leave me a gap,
you fit me into your crevasses.
The small of your back is damp and curving,
heat emanates under the wraps of your limbs
your steady breath has sudden flutters.
I sweep into our soft warm nest,
below the folding sheets and the crested mounds,
valleys of our flesh, cotton and blue silk
Twist in the ebb, the back and forth of the tide.
Full of longing I steal a long caress under and up your back,
awoken in my current you harshly pull my hand,
twisting it to the back of the rafter’s edge,
I curve into your rising waves as you turn,
your heat is released into the cold air around us.
The stone walls begin to glisten with our breath,
Beneath us, the ocean becomes disturbed
Unable to swim, we gasp for air and float.
Every limb is occupied with a particular task
In perfect rhythm within our fabric island
we bathe in the hot moisture of the foam.
As the waves start to sing in low steady pitch,
our stretched hands caress the shore over and over
as a poetry of colours explode in my head, and
as you surface, mariner conquered.
I taste the salt in your skin, prying away,
into separate space to catch the last molecule of air.
Full of guilty laughter we gather the tossed garments.
Fogged up the glass, we loose hold on the compass,
sailing past shipwrecks and other lost voyagers,
tucked under the covers again before the heat dissipates,
together on our journey.
Copyright © Monica Contreras | Year Posted 2010
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