lust sonnet #1
Mid-winter and I’m a twisted ankle,
a barometric ache. How my hands shake
over your spine, the broken line I’ve raked
slow down the inside of your arm. I hate
how even the rain has birds in it now,
the curtain of wings pounding the windows.
Downspouts littered with feathers and the prowl
of cats, blue black, along the unlit rows
of houses with their backs to us. The dawn
still loves me, still skims its fingers along
the emptied beds, the sad dresses that fall
over bedroom doors, their dark sleeves gone wrong,
gone tangled and unruly in their want.
Outside, every bird with rain in its throat.
