they say winter, but it’s not
by Neil Reid
Photograph © Neil Reid
I’m missing your hips, like some
soft brown lover who never quite
arrived in this bed. even while
I’m yet just arm’s length close.
who wouldn’t be joined after those
sweet summer scents breathed
into me. pillows cheek to cheek.
even mostly yellowed dry fleece
impart brazen thistle seeds along
the trailed edge of a passing gasp.
carry me away with you.
blown thigh high hugging near
the curve of breasts, and as no
child wonders, will I land in dry
wind or damp cleft?
manzanita bones or oaken ripe
ribs where lizards tease their
shadows swift. a forked tongue
or two between the stones.
that shattered soil inhabits
every inch of limb and thought,
dust like new born talc. never
all brushed out of clothes.
suppose no tears left the
watershed for any child who
fell, orphan from that communal
paws that would willingly feast
on any wayward child lost inside
the backside woods. no
now, if I were to leave
it would be only me who
but yea, your wandered
curves are drawn in me.
some thistles here remain.
Neil’s process notes:
About “place” that we call home. This is mine. Whether close or far I feel this inside of me. Don’t know another, only one, this one, but suppose not uncommon how one place feels more in rhythm with myself than another does. Homing instinct? What sets the compass inside each of us. My home is more dry yellow-brown than green and the very soil has a scent strong as any other presence here. So much might be well settled, civilized, but there is a wildness yet close at hand and it looks just like this.