You appeared at the perfect time.

Whilst break dancing
through religious break-throughs, breakfasting
on white light hues, she saw you and the life-guard
got off the chair for her turn in the waves.

Belly swallows this time, all the way in
drowsy and sweeping braided together in
ankle-length hair . The moon was full and
entwining; the sharp crackle of fire against
a childish river told us to turn our heads
and make it holy.

Sweaters could be knit with the
after-effect. And have been.

Each leaf of the silver fern fell
and I watched them all, slight
and numb and tall and carrying
moon journeys, star journeys, sun
light years.

Til you appeared at the perfect time.

My mind was beating wild in my salted throat,
crushing itself, squeezing
so tight my toenails shivered. Your index finger
touched my hand
and my shoulder bones melted
like butter in a hot skillet
we made quesadillas with cups of tea
and didn’t talk about politics.

Sunrise came
and we watched the winter return.

Cold tides tasted bitter on my tongue;
dreariness colored itself on the lids I couldn’t stop
seeing through—life after life, I watched.
Then the saltiness crept lazy from
the shallows, massaging with ease
the dead skin from my toes, ’til
so scoured, they became
like satin.

Then I appeared at the perfect time.



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