By John Hennessy
With the pillow turned and crushed
between them they constellate, make a quincunx,
head in the sky, ankles and feet
stuck in the sea. His breath still comes quickly
and she laughs, twisting her nightgown
across her waist, the minute’s ivy crown.
His hands press his hips where hers just were.
Ghost ships. He feels their wake. She braids half her hair.
She rises and navigates the hall,
leaving him alone as the tide ebbs,
still moored to the bulkhead of the bed.
The tap startles, splashing behind the wall.
By her return he’s mid-sentence, his urge a squall
touching down lightly, carrying almost all she’s said.
This poem originally appeared in Huffington, in the iTunes App store.