April 17


It is four in the morning.  At this hour, bones of children in the graveyard become flutes for the devil. Even the wind is afraid. It pushes against my window–wants in. You are still dreaming–words of your mother–brown hills, running barefoot across fields, always coming home. I trace the outline of your nipple with my tongue–explore the humid jungle of your body.  I don’t want the sun to rise–let it stay like this–your arms keep us here, safe. Even the clouds hesitate to shift. The rooster in the courtyard feels it and, for a moment, listens to his own echo. Wind stutters with songs of children lost–carried to the bay, where waves rock them. If I could hold something in my heart for the times when you are gone–I would hold this moment–between the rhythms of our breathing–between darkness and light–the sun coming–spilling over hills in our dream.