YOU NEVER CALLED ME A COWARD
“I want to kiss you.”
Guilt demanded my eyes die
before your hollowed sockets pleaded with me.
The shadow paced us.
You ran barefoot through puddles on city concrete.
I twirled you around on my arms’ carousel.
We drank the soft grapes of our lips.
Our fists gripped high-thread-count sheets
as you burst free in my mouth.
I was a coward. Instead of standing trial
to what your eyes discerned,
I pivoted on that dry creaking floor and
exited the umber-stained door,
like the man in the black coat.
The shadow climbed into you.
You never called me a coward.
Instead you curled like a patient
on the floor fearing absence’s footfalls in
the empty hallways and the floor’s
cold grains. I called myself
“you fucking coward” in your voice.
We were right.
My fingers touch the tender knotted muscle
between your ribs, your spine, and your shoulder
blade. Your back presses my knuckles to the mattress.
Your hair spills across the bed, crosshatched
by shadows cast from parking lot lights
through the drawn shades.
I swear I’m in the nightroom
with the lights, your hair, your back,
and our urgent breaths, and promises.
* * *
This is another in my poem of the day series that I share on Facebook. You can backtrack through the posts or use the tag “Poem of the Day” to read previous entries.
Peter Walks for Democracy 