Patricia Roth Schwartz





That high summer, long day’s end, she
who is still you burst through twilight’s shell
into welling dark, fireflies’ sparkle winking off/on
off/on all around, the same way, half a life later,
down just past the careful beds of herbs you’d
hand-planted, on another night full of those same
small earth-stars, you took a lover, pouring
into each other your kisses, just the way at four
you poured yourself into yourself alone, that
sheer wildness of voice, limbs, heart, all pumping.
No one that night could get you to stop, to come
inside for timid stories, weak cocoa, a stuffed
rabbit—the small wild body that was you that
is still you against the inevitable drop of night,
haloed with light, its dazzle and flash, turns
cartwheel     after cartwheel     after cartwheel

Copyright © 2004 Patricia Roth Schwartz.  All Rights Reserved.

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