Between a lung sucked back through love into regret of accepted lust.
On a blackberry-tasting tongue.
At a secret whistle outside the bedroom window
turning to a keening beside the quilt.
From the time of grasping fingers to the time of lowering blankly,
brows drawn black and grass departing you from all sounds
of tender and hardened loved ones.
From the anger at your father.
From the annoyance at yourself, the slamming of an object, the consideration
of cutting edges
peeling forth the red,
like a signal,
an ecstatic meeting–tears beating at the light
like the pulse of the soul–or
a covering or an opening,
a faultless disclosure.
--Natalie Caulfield lives in Connecticut with her archaic typewriter and a river creeping up her back yard. Her work has been published at Ink Sweat & Tears webzine and is forthcoming in Penny Ante Feud.