November is a bare bedroom welcoming the dying of light
slipping in.
my waiting skin
crystal white powder on pines
you are pink sky spreading
and, melting,
we begin to bleed the salt of oceans, to blend;
water returning always to water
eyes reflecting pools and we
dare,
softly,
full to the pulsing throat of a scourging
hunger,
drawn at the reverent knees by this ecstatic
worthiness,
to taste each other slow.
we are the way a frozen winter’s night builds fires
inside the hollow frames of animal bodies,
smoke in our lungs
tongues and flames in our teeth
birds gliding
silent
overhead.
.
.
.
Allison Marie Conway 