Sometime in the Fall
By Annmarie Lockhart
No way would I open that door again. Forty thousand tears had washed away
that story. There’s nothing like fingers on keys to chase off the impression of
hands on skin, nothing like lunar waxes and wanes crashing surf to drown out
our tug-of-war. But when the power went out, my first thought was of you. So,
as the seagulls squawked about times and tides waiting for no man, and you
recounted dalliances and alliances. I watched the Hudson River open and narrow
through the palisade channel. Accepting invitations, watching words take shape, I
invited one kiss. Ten fingers traced your heart on my skin, two rows of teeth
stamped your name on my flesh. The jealous moon bled silver over green marble
and I said, I love you. Still.
Annmarie Lockhart is the founding editor of Vox Poetica, an online literary salon dedicated to bringing poetry into the everyday. She is also the founder of unbound CONTENT, an independent publisher for a boundless age. A lifelong resident of Bergen County New Jersey, she lives two miles east of the hospital where she was born.