ORPHANS TO A MAUVE ROSE

[Craig Wells]

ORPHANS TO A MAUVE ROSE


Down to her
toes wet
in navy blue sandals,
moonlight kisses
the lust out
of her body
as long as
the rain slaps
against my window
trembling
it; but
the wind
stops
and upon wild
waters, the
sky strikes
a rock,
clouds form
a line to a
dream
swifter than a bare
butt skidding
across ice,
while out of reach
of a mauve rose
cut from a night
alive with
orphans
of the moon,
beside a pillow laced
with sunshine, the
color of the
rose disappears
into old
bleached jeans
as wet as sky
echoed with
raindrops;
then into those she
no longer wears,
and from the
sweet
urgency of dry
lips, she kisses the
breath of my
heart from
saying
no,
brings me
to the moment
when I wait
for the line of
underwear
on skin
to fade; and a
light line, imagining
a rose dusted
from a red
clay pot
kisses
the sweat from
her breast
while the wind
of my heart
passes
through the white
of a summer
sun, into
footsteps gone back
to the earth
green with the ardor
of her lips all
over my
face
with love.