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.
First published in Social Alternatives March 2019.