by Michael H. Brownstein
She massages my hands and lets me put things in my mouth
Her skin clear weather, eyes blood sucker brown, hair huckleberry opium.
Everyone needs someone they can brag to safe and strong, selfish and encouraging
As if hazardous waste can spread that thin
Or a sunset can be that spectacular through polluted haze.
Light fills a space like heat over paths of weed and wood
And she, a shadow in deadfall moving, the moon on the wake left behind,
And sometimes from a lack of doing nothing, she is the sun.
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