The Thirteenth of Never
Remember, the month. We were turning
swine into pearls, or something,
and you clapped a hand to my eye
with all the fat of a smack.
There was a season over your shoulder,
as rusty as a dawn drawn
screaming into conversation. Rain
was drivelling from long nostrils
of sky. You chafed my cheekbones
with spatula hands, and pointed
your words towards an invisible
wriggle of hills. I made a moue.
I traced your lips in the darkness,
while you wrestled very tenderly
with rhetorical questions. It was
a wrench, but at least it worked.
When we turned, we were so close
that our edges blurred. The shadows
under your eyes were mine, our hips
one babble of bone, and the same
threads of nerve embroidered our bodies.
We reached across, and filched a fist
of memories from the lower slopes,
stole glimpses, instants. And suddenly
the air was wild with fire, with flames
drenching our face. We were wrapped
in a cloak of blaze, a conflagration.
We were soaked in starlight,
in the sweet heat of a furnace.
The past was a dance. Its quiet embers
lit up the country for several furlongs,
for new blue moons. The months, remember?