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.