Saturday, March 16, 2013


There is a red-hot remembering
at the mention of her name -
the growing pink upon her cheeks,
intensity of breaths, closing eyes.

There is a white-hot regret
that follows and a speechlessness
that has never gone away, an acrid
leaking in the middle of my chest.

There is a dark gray shame
that draws on my shoulders
and causes my eyes to blink wet.
I dare to look to you.

There is a deep-blue peace
that comes with the tilt of your head,
the resting of your hand on my cheek.
You lean into me, kiss me.

There is a yellow and a yellow and a yellow.

Boston Literary Magazine - Spring 2013

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