The bones
she sweeps in like a storm past midnight
snow on a lightless street
her skin smelling like ice and winter
his eyes, wider than she’s seen them in years, whole stories of a man, unshakable cyphers, the strain of swallowed plots and undoable deeds.
he’s holding his breath between those bones–her wild and tender bones–and the years’ long shadows
asking himself please
be still now,
still (again) stay so still
but the breath runs away after the bones and tempered ice of her and the movement of lips, a cheek, an unwinding woman in a body being unbuilt
ok he says. ok. she says. smaller than he’s ever felt her.
and then her boots are in the snow
and she returns to fulfill her winter.
Dec 2015