Honeysuckle
Lying under the bush he breaks
the slim stems of fragrant honeysuckle,
squeezes the milky juice, squirts
sweet nectar into her yearning mouth.
A tiny taste of hope on the tongue.
She dashes home at dusk. The aroma
of chimney smoke, thick country odors abound.
The cabin buzzes and shakes with the chainsaw.
He coaxes a large pine log into the fire.
He stops, looks at her, reaches
to pick a spike of ragweed from her hair.
“Be a good girl”. He picks up the saw
and yanks the rope on the motor. “Won’t you”?
No comments:
Post a Comment