An old woman makes love in her dream
After Audra Mae

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com
Only one man could braille her skin
and lift her down like hay in a mournful gale.
Only one would sail in her like words from Anaïs Nin
and leave a babe from whey mixed with lies and London gin.
Only one left her flesh a campfire of bone, of blood and marrow
to make her feel alive through the making of such ruinous love,
a boy from thresh of grain to birthstone eyes of sad sparrow
and through the dead we learn to survive yet still is love,
still is love when she turns the bed like a mother’s heart
still is love when she turns the key in her car that won’t start
still is love when she touches herself and misses the yearning
still is love when she screams like clams as tide is turning.
Still is.
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