I am the pen at his right side.
Dark ink—waiting.
A strong hand, course, from winter’s dry,
cold air. Immobile. My heart in mourning—
Education in his knuckles, protruding,
a few stubbly hairs.
They recall a touch on the cheek,
catching a pink bottom-lip, open,
to hope for more than a melancholy spring.
Unequipped to read his mind.
The pure paper, wanting…
Give us a story. Etch I love you.
A house on the hill with daisies,
Lavender dreams,
A picket fence in need of painting,
Iron skillet with a sunny-side-up broadcast.
Imagine our heels soft on the upswing,
a perfect seat for two, catching a breeze from the east.
Push the lose flying hair behind my ear, quickly,
before it gets away, wise like a bird.
A porch of yellow pine housing ants
with stories of their own.
His hand reaches for the pen.
I brace for impact from what I am yet to know.
Maria Pisciotta-DellaPorte ©2018 All Rights Reserved
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