Beth Woodcome

Our Spring Has Gone Tired

We can hear moonlight stuck
in pickling jars.
We can see scars on the newly painted walls.
I did not predict this sort of house for us.  
We want to rewind this room
to make love again in the doorway
that is gone since we have turned around.
It's like an ocean here
and I can hardly believe
in the sun, in dry wind.
There's nothing strange about him
touching me, except that it is happening
and the kitchen hasn't turned itself
over to sparrows yet.
We will sit and watch
for any space between us
to show up -- endanger itself
so that we can understand
the trauma of our doorknobs
and salt shakers.

return to SHAMPOO issue #1