Laura Creste '13
The sun exposes the shy anatomy of leaves.
Sheer greenness here where we aren’t speaking –
purposefully or for lack
of anything to say, I can’t remember.
I turn a page and find blue hydrangea
pressed in a book: the stem like a throat giving
way to mouth, the blue-veined crush
into the cream page: collapsed
impulse for delicacy. Soon we’ll get up.
Soon, I’ll find him a train schedule.
I hate sex in the morning –
Outside next to the loose maple leaves
are the stronger trees, leaves darker, glossy
and folded. Vines harass the bark
and the maple falls open like an offering.
I dislike animals and that is why
no one will ever trust me. We have come
together again to answer the question
would you rather suffer now or later?
The rain is coming; the heat breaks and does so violently.
By August Queen Anne’s lace is blanching dry.
The ocean on the east end has been calm
for two summers now. We have been deciding
about each other for five years. They are nothing
like the waves when I was child – when I stood at the shore
darting hesitantly close like something feral.
I don’t know why you need me; I know why I do:
I am an obsessive compulsive.
You’ll console yourself with a cat.
You had to love something, to be made weak.