7th
10-6
no new poems this weekend…taking some time to fill up the creative stores for the week! here’s one from the vault.
On A Sunday Morning
You smell like home
and warm southern comfort-
like clothes drying in the sun
that cast a white gleam
in the shimmering heat.
The scent of your detergent
drifts into my lungs
and back out again
in warm waves of memory.
It lingers on the pillow
where your head lay last,
after the cold had come
and you wrapped yourself
in my clean cotton sheets
to sleep and dream after
the trip you called the longest of your life
(they smelled of absence until you came).
And I can catch a glimpse
of the future in that smell,
a wanting of hands and legs entwined
in the afternoon,
of bodies resting and waiting
while head’s dreams wrestle
with a quiet unrelenting heart
that puzzles over its reluctance
to feel what it knows to be true.
