Two Women

Drank from the wellspring of your hair,
the mouth is a tender butterfly, so coma

is rapture, after the late evening dance,
as your legs outran me, and your lungs
out pumped, and your heart made
commotion like a radiator, winter gasped
outside as it watched.

So we are two
women of no means, poor and
naked beside the snow – hold on.
Your hand has a pulse in its palm,
beating out a little rhythm, while cats
dart across floors upstairs, creating
thunder in the dark.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

w

Connecting to %s