There is a hole in her bathing suit,
a small window of skin, a great oval
of downy hairs and nerves perfectly encased
in tropical wanderings
as she reclines over a red and pink striped towel
as if it were a plump tongue
rolled out to taste the essence of summer.
It is evening and the sun has taken its leave
towards the West, setting on great men
left behind in the wake of changing tides,
while I lie here soaked in my favorite potion of azure skies
with clouds shearing each other,
above and below the belt, in real time.
The sound of her breath is even and sweet
against the early night, filled with bird chatter
and airplanes writing their sorrows into the blue
like scars, keeps me in a state of flux. The soft
lapping of pool water against the tiles
and the last of the day’s sun moving across the white fence,
seal me into a haunting peacefulness.
This moment is viable. I watch the world
do what it always does regardless of my existence,
despite my flesh laid out on the ground as an offering
to false gods of abundance and grace. I could suffer
in this sliver of time gladly, as it is somehow
more perfect than all the rest.
Aleathia Drehmer 2008
Published by The Poetry Warrior, Issue 3, 2/09
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