What might she send — a wet sleeve, or platter of brine-latticed bluefish dusky with capers, lemons, wine; a briar for your thumb, a mouth, lunatic, to suck the blood: a signal that one too often inside & now beside herself with thoughts of you wonders how she might woo and through dew-whetted keyhole pursue & sing & win? She is marvelous with waiting. Come. Hunt here. Relieve with hands and tongue her heavy hour.
New Year’s Eve
Two sisters side by side,
benched at the gleaming fin
of the living room’s out-of-tune baby grand,
work out a mash-up, Adele’s “Hello”
& Kate Bush’s “Wuthering Heights,”
Hello, it’s me. . . , Heathcliff, it’s me, it’s Cathy,
voices by turns treble, then cemetery-dusked,
meandering, & hungry
as the sinew-tracks of moles
sponging December’s yard,
painted mouths of iced puddles,
branchless leaves snaring the window
with inhuman gale.
One swallows this heavy beauty,
rolls the mordent perfume
back to bloom as the other slips out
of autumn’s whalebone stave, descant.
They sing as if still girls. As if before
love’s scarlet evidence, & not, like the year,
the trees, already moved, moved through.