The grasses flutter and bend on the rolling hill,
their hearts upturned in the rustling wind.
Two lovers meet beneath a great, sprawling tree
of red fruit dangling heavily as planetary bodies
Vines curl in an intimacy along their bodies,
for to be naked is to be known.
The man does not speak but holds secrets in his
mouth, painful as an unfurling snake.
Strength clenches his jaw, strangles his heart
until it is a mass of limp palpitations.
The woman holds her sorrows in her throat
as if a shuffling blackbird, and she is breathless.
She retains the dignity of a woman accustomed
to having no confidante; her heart is of bone.
Their lips mutter in their secret-keeping,
their hands are hidden from one another.
In the night they cry silently, softly as small birds.
--Margaret Beaver's poems have have appeared or are forthcoming in various online literary magazines. In addition, she has been a featured guest on Vox Poetica's Blog Talk Radio show 15 Minutes of Poetry. Her first chapbook, The Memory Speaks, is available from Victorian Violet Press.