May 2014 - Comments Off


Mica Evans

Lover -- I am having you exquisitely, hovering,
poised with knees kissing your filled ribs, simpering.

A truth whispered verily: I’m artless, not really coy,
not royal, or even consummately good at heart; yours

flutters. I hunch over to butterfly kiss, turn
and your slipped large hand from our sage afghan

lets me lift you out of bed. On this August morning, early
in Rome, the perlid, red jasper amulet you gave me

is laid coruscating in the window as the sun wakes up
your home, and we are depurating in the atrium. Undisturbed

by most distractions, we are taking it slow. Although
most of our familiars are dead, the abandon of today

is bent for them. There is no one here to attend to us -
a pair so famous. And I’ve been your garrison, lusty

when we first went to war. Lover, you are faltering,
tracing the black aspis tattoo, along my thigh and shin

again and again. On our backs between two columns
in the garden, I clasp your hand and know that I

would blithely die for you, am bright enough not to say.
I adore you, but our sore eyes are slighted up

to the great sycamore; lover we are praying
for divination. I hate to say this, but you will never

love me like I love myself. And I will always love you
less than I love my God, and the ghostly, blue,

static that receives me from your keen hips. Listen
to the heart-shaped leaves bewitching us.
My intuition says it’s time to close our eyes now.

Published by: in Issue 2: Spring 2014, Volume 70

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