And Having
Said So, I Packed My Bags and Left For Arkansas
Brent Long
At the lost
and empty place where
we have all held quarter at one time
or another there is a woman who comes
toward us the first cold mornings and
She knows
before we do
nights we wake up with the
bedsheets torn, clumps
of our hair in each fist
She can
sense whatever it is we require
She knows how little we will settle for
She presents
her advantage as art that
we might hang from our own walls
She can
speak nine languages
She states
as fact the stars
we sleep beneath are prayers
that have fallen short of heaven and
backs it up by calling forth the sunrise
First light
of our sex
the fields are pulsing
Whenever
she is planning a visit
we know about it well ahead of time
because the moon blossoms fill with hornets and
a steady breeze comes forth to sweep away the tell-tale
layer of dust that has settled over the bedposts
She always
stays the night
When she
lies down beside us
locusts in the trees
sing like mourning doves
We close
our eyes
We do not
sleep
The 2River View, 2_2 (Winter 1998)
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