You are a monk on the bench in the garden blessed by a god neither of us believe in. Your belly a great rising and falling of intuition as the faint perfumes from Yucca and Oxlip float into your mouth on the easy breaths that come in half sleep, and I a bee amidst the stems and petals, adventuring out several feet at a time reporting back colors, whorled leaves, and densely tangled ground cover to your deaf ears. A benevolent smile peels your lips, eyes close in the winking summer light dancing minuets across the bridge of your nose until it finds me still and silent in the world’s greatest perfection. I come to rest on the worn wood beside you, leaving no space for air between us. Our warming damp skins mingle, ribs touch in rhythm to the raven’s call; your arm rests over my shoulder like moth wings as the belfry comes alive, scattering vibrations through the blue. My lungs hold their breath, feel yours continue even and sweet, then release in time to meet your bones that cage the dove, burning quiet. You speak at once about bodies buried at our feet. Their gift the flowers, wild and entangled, growing from the bone dust of pious men. I knew then, I loved you.
Aleathia Drehmer 2008
Published by Flutter 10/08