Undressing
Kristin Towe
We tasted dusk:
a crushed blackberry sky,
dripping purple stain in rivers
between our sticky child fingers
blinking out stardust, an orange zest
that sticks in the grater, sticks in
his eyelashes, curled like a question
Mark this moment,
sister heart whispers,
sighs like tea whistles:
One day, middle May
we kept each other company
in a cloud canyon, on an old white quilt
my knee, sharp like an arrow
his bare foot, curved like a bow
raised and focused
between the panels of the blinds,
where the dusk undressed in shades of recipe.
