Heather

Heather

When I try to picture your face
I see only shards of light,
Like peering into a dream
Cluttered with wakefulness;
Like trying to reconstruct a myth;
Gawping at Medusa by torchlight.

But your voice is with me always:
Velvet deep and smooth as cognac;
A cello concerto rising and falling;
Waves folding and breaking and changing
Like the memory of desire with a full throat
Choked with laughter
And swollen with possibilities.