The ExchangeAlan King
after Rachel Eliza Griffiths, for Tos Because the day’s threaded through hours the way a skewer’s threaded through meat and vegetables. Because I needed your whispers misting in the cave of my ears. I look for you in a blur of blue jays. Your lips are red- bellied cardinals tangled in each other. I listen for you in the sounds of trees brushing their crowns against a cold wind that’s become hard and flat as cymbals. I descend the stairs to touch your face. Give me your skewered hours, the meat and vegetable of your days. My mouth— a welcome below a waiting threshold. My eyes— separate skies you search for stars. Each hour roasting away. Their ghost aromas haunting the air. The smell of oceans leaves your pores, you having pedaled miles back to me. Your locks coil like coral, your eyes bright as a horizon above water. I give you my mouth, flying to what glows in your dusk-colored skin. Your laugh— the wind returning from somewhere at this moment. Give me the heat in your embraces. Give me your face nuzzled in my neck. Here. Take my hands. You place your heel inside them, as if fitting the glass slipper.
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