waves

-
She sits awhile in shadow
staring at the unlit window,

and turns the music up
from the driveway in her coupe.

She rubs her hands, cold and gnawed,
wheel-worn where too tightly held,

like reeling in an empty line,
or rolling over one more time,

chewing on some week-old bread,
or kneeding down a hardened bed.



But oh,
still it comes,

in and out on waves,
like hot showers on winter days,

or like a cold, chocolate shake
into a searing belly ache,

like caresses through long hair
on a trapeze in ocean air.
-
All rights reserved.
photo by Jillian Standish