Standing within this silence and dense fog,
I see nothing. Civilization is closed and time
Water slides over rock like the hands of a
masseuse on my back. Foam curls and slaps
the sandy shores that hold the delicious
knowledge created through centuries of intimacy.
I turn and blush.
The silence sings in a pale-yellow pitch; fog fairies
capture me as they flirt in dance, tickle my
Marsh grass has fallen to the weight of lovers, and I
heed a call to make a bed with nature. In this place,
ghosts of fairies glide over you, and just when you close
your eyes, they dance Swan Lake on your belly.
Every Thursday, the half-ton truck backs into
our muddy driveway, doors open like the
nostrils on our mare.
On cold white walls hang pork chops, sirloin
and roast – the meat that sings, makes no
apology for the high-priced tags, dripping blood
while we lust, reach out but dare not touch.
“Stew meat and hamburger go a long way, wieners
are good with my baked beans,” she says. With not
much money, it’s another week we won’t go hungry.