The 3am Poem

bedsheets

At 3am: I write about you.

I’ve lost you.

Sometimes we’ve just made love.

Photo: Hannah Schwartz

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the affair

 

red leaves path

his arms
ferry me into
hushed footsteps
lush of red
on these mountains
imagining
tonight’s
moon glow
rose petals are
gazes
touching
the ever embraceable

Photo: ok.ru

Summer Morning

In that dictionary – a poem is
ready to explain how the sun
rose this morning as slow as
buttercups, longer than a
mockingbird sang honey
into my Earl Grey, and after
thirty-one brushstrokes of
blue and forever passing,
finally you woke to fresh
berries and cream as the
hummingbirds slowed,
looking in the kitchen
window, the sugar-water
cooling and just about ready
for a poem.

Staying Too Long

He asked if it was always
this busy. I said, “No. Busier.”
I wanted to eat with him then
when his smile lit up a dark day.

And I did, staying too long –
each of us with people waiting –
his wife, my husband.

But there were things that
needed saying: his fifth grade
broken arm, my long desire
for a man who had broken his
arm in fifth grade.

And the days fell into step
meeting there, a deli as it
happened, and I can say I
loved even as we said we
wouldn’t, assuring ourselves
the hotel room was just once,
twice and the amount of time
it takes to stop counting.

I told myself these things
happen: a deli, a room, a man
with whom I never should
have, this man with whom
I did.

R A I N

Like you it hums softly.

It grows a green garden, too.

I believe you two are brothers
from a good family –

always nourishing with
just a touch.

And neither of you made
any promises to stay,

leaving sometimes for days
on business, then arriving

home again as if somewhere
else had needed you more.