Published in Staple New Writing Magazine Spring 1997
We stood tall against the white sill.
Corduroy hoops slipped off of shoulders,
Fell over sleeves. Jam breath
Made moons low on the window.
I held a warm hand
Against her hand. Mine ended
A thimble earlier. Ridges sloped
From my clasps, matched the brown
Of her eyes. Turquoise met
Her knees, skirted a waist.
The road’s surface swelled between willows.
Friday’s stickiness collected lint
On the ledge.
Gravel crunched under tires.
We flew out of the house, as a metal
Door shut. We
Hurried along the walk, to the arms
That became bagfulls of shopping.
To the likeness in the small apricot
Below the mouth, that odd wave
Of hair over her ear.
Painting by Nicolas Tarkhoff