Issue 9


Autumn 2013

 

Song of Songs


 
Chopped pears in a porcelain bowl
         ladled with cream.
Candles flicker
         not even a whisper between us
just your hand resting on mine
         a move away from holding me.
As my thoughts slip from cream to green –
we’re under shushing willow                         
         in a June breeze, our faces fenced  
in shadow.
         Darkness closes like a blind –
in silence we pass through a wet street;         
         peppered lights. We don’t speak
         but your lips brush my cheek like an accident.
         I want to cling, but temptation                      
might strangle us. A sensation on my head –
         your lips again.
We move apart and walk into the early hours.
 
You are a forbidden prayer,
         so I look at wrought trellis on the steps
as we climb; stroke,
         whirl my fingers around ironwork.
 
                     Purgatory: I breathe your breath,
         great gulps of life in a moonless night
and I try to kiss –
                     but my lips are sealed.

 

________________________

Maria Isakova Bennett

 

 

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