807. that alluvial stain

As the hour of departure drew near, Trev sat with pen and paper. Em was quietly packing, folding clothes with care, holding them with the dignity of sacred texts. He thought of the return to space, to the hardness of metal, of manufactured air. Of how very different life had been here with the cottage, the lake, the pathways through the woods, of the sun in the morning, of dusk descending, of the sound of wildlife, of birds and crickets and owls. He thought of reading by the stream, a blanket laid on a bed of clover. Of glasses raised and toasts given, of wine on the tongue and smiles as beautiful as butterflies. He thought of open windows and candles and poetry written as she slept, that gentle rising of breath, the softness of her bosom under a light throw, of how her hair flowed over tranquil eyes. He watched her now, moving from chest to bed, organized, he thought, like the daughter of a sea captain, always mindful of what to bring and how to bring it. He thought too of the hour, of their leaving and as if a window was open and a gentle breeze beckoned, he thought of the soft soil of this place, of its wonderful aromatic richness and in this thought, of richness, of fresh-turned earth, this mother of all they ate and drank, he thought of Em. Of the line between mothers and birth, of the dying to one thing in order to be born to another, of the movement of arm and leg, the sweep of a look, the tenderness in breath against the ear. So he wrote. No editing, no revision, no care but for the flow. Then he wrote it again. Only later, when Em was emptying the trash did she find what he had written.

We leave in an hour. I want you in the humid soil before the lake, to know your dampness, that soft domain, refulgent, indolent, of grass and flower, of skirt and thigh. I want your sigh seen as ghosts rising, your teeth unconsciously bare in desire, your eyes full of the stars beyond my back. I want to know your gravity and shiver warm and cold, warm and cold with celsius pleasure, that seduction known to finger and glove. There is here life, this fullness, this rush, this fit. This crashing of you into me, my world, our world as changed as the boy upon the breast. I want muddy earth between my fingers, to smell of your bloom flowering my shoulder, your lust in the tremor of calf and the impaling of nails, this seeking of blood, to rip open, to expose, to reveal to the heavens what heretofore has been hidden. It is here, this last freedom released, unbound before fruit and flower, intoxicated in the way of poets with verbs and architects with nouns. But above all, I want not your soul nor your willing flesh sinuous and shimmering. I want what can never be taken, never be replaced. I want you, as you have never been, as you will never be again. I want dissolution. I want abject capitulation. The melding of our coin into new currency. I want it this night. I want it forever more.


As the hour draws near, my desire surges for soil, that alluvial stain, damp as damp to be, those soft domains moonly refulgent, this indolent night of sweet grass and bowed flower, of pleated skirt and willful thigh. I need this place of ghostly sighs rising from parted lips, of teeth bare before nature and eyes scarred of fallen stars. I ache to know your tidal gravity, to shiver warm and cold with celsius pleasure, that snug seduction known to finger and glove. This fit, this fullness, this silty rush of life, this crashing of you into me, our world as changed as the boy upon the breast. I want muddy earth between my fingers, the pungent flowering of my shoulder, lust in the tremor of calf, the impaling of nails, this seeking of blood, to rip open, to expose and reveal to the heavens what heretofore has been hidden. I need this last freedom released, unbound and given flight. I want not your soul nor your flesh sinuous and shimmering. It is not in the hour, or minute nor second that I seek, but this eternal imprint of memory stained in the act of dissolution, abject capitulation, the melding of coin into new currency.