Undercliff

Silt rinsed over me,

shackled to the river bottom.

Murky water rushed against

the small of my back,

the break in my spine.

Chips of graphite

clawing at my fingertips,

or my fingertips at them.

 

I was searching,

rather, rifling through the

forces – the falling star,

the dirty current,

the burning leaves –

to find words

that might make you

crawl on my shores.

 

Instead,

you asked me how to be

a good lesbian,

asked for an anatomy lesson,

offered to pay for my drinks

at the local bar,

where you cried, saying

I wouldn’t let you live in Colorado.

 

My response was steady,

in sync with the

ebb and flow.

Yes, yes, yes.

And crashing

on the banks of your

opposition,

though the wind was still.

 

In the morning,

we found a fraying rope

at the edge of the water,

down by the overpass.

I hesitated to plunge,

feet first, because I could see the rocks,

the fish, the reflection of cars on the highway,

going north.

 

But, yes.

I did touch you by the fire,

explaining the sum of which parts

is orgasm.

Yes.

I did jump into

collarbone deep, icy black to prove

I had it in me.

And, yes, I’d go anywhere with you.

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