Page 54 - WTP Vol. VII #1
P. 54

Hope Jordan
The Spell
Heft of density, stones, earth-apples, rotting fruit, a skull.
Body temperature, skin – rough. Just enough light, just enough.
Light is an insult.
We lie in lairs spooning,
bellies full, slink into the night
surrounded by clean bones.
Mask and passion, the necessary parasites. Root, dirt beneath your fingernails. Mouths lie, tongues tell
each other truths.
I’ve lost only your skin, your breath, the way we lay together, long ago.
If the world were to end
on Sunday, I would say,
I once wanted you so badly I wrote your name
on a piece of paper
and I set it on fire.
after Mark Doty
Crisp dusk near South Station and I swear in the window
of Les Zygomates, upstairs
on South Street
Adrienne Rich is sharing some burrata, looking down at the sidewalk,
face half-tilted toward her
companion, trademark dark hair
like the knit hat on the head
of the boy walking by, her shy smile shifting a little as she lifts
a fig from a plate, enjoying
her dish, so delighted
to be striking sparks
on the window glass with her words, I’m enchanted.

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