I’m working on my next book, with a growing stack of final poems, and a growing burn pile of former versions of those poems in process. As Bradbury famously said, “It was a pleasure to burn.” Step by step now,…
In this desert, all this light
Briefest moment, your hand
on my hipbone,
your lungs unfurling themselves.
I could taste your breath.
Electric, your eyes, with what wasn’t said.
So very many things I have left unsaid,
let the curve of a cheekbone,
the hollow below the neck,
the upper ridgeline of rib
speak their own stories instead.
© 2016 Dora E. McQuaid
All peace to each one of you. Dora