On this seventh day
of the seventh month, magpies
bridge in a cluster
of black and white
the Sky King crosses
to meet his Queen, time tracked
by the close-knit wheeling
of stars. I watch. You come
to me tonight, drunk on wine
and cards, nails ridged black
with opium
to ease the pain
of work. We are
all men here. Any
body can be
a bridge, little raven,
your eyes squeezed shut
but not from pain.
We are
a trestle, a grade
we build together.
What matter if you say
you’d never choose
me were there
women willing
in this desert. I
chose. I choose
the memory we share
of rivers, your hair
of smoke and raw,
wet leather. A man
in another
man’s hand makes himself
tool or weapon, says
the overseer, as if a man’s use
to another is only one
of work. Pleasure
is our only chosen
future. You
are the home
I briefly make, the country
I can return to. Now
the moon wheels
its white shoulder
in the dark as you push me
to earth, slip
my whiskered tip
of hair into your mouth.
Copyright © 2021 by Paisley Rekdal. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on December 14, 2021, by the Academy of American Poets.