9.07.2020

it's like trying to tell a dream

'Sometimes, After Making Love' 

When
we feel the blood slip 
through our arteries and veins, 
sliding through the capillaries, thin as 
root hairs, bringing bliss to the most 
remote outposts of our bodies, delivering 
oxygen and proteins, minerals, all the rich 
chemicals our cells crave and devour 
as we have devoured each other, I 
lie there as sound reasserts itself, 
and listen to the soft ticking on the clock 
and a foghorn, faint from the lighthouse, 
a car door slams across the street, 
and I want to say something to you, 
but it's like trying to tell a dream, 
when the words come out flat as 
handkerchiefs under the iron and the listener 
smiles pleasantly like a person who doesn't 
speak the language and nods at everything. 
It should be enough that we have 
lived these hours, breathing 
each other's breath, catching the wind 
in the sails of our bodies. 
It should be enough. And yet 
I carry the need for speech, strung 
on the filaments of my DNA like black pearls, 
from the earliest times when
our ancestors 
must have lain still, in amazement, 
and groped for the first words. 

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