← v16n2, Fall 2017
Poetry · Volume 16, Number 2

Love Is a Wound that Will Happen

The motel is from another era, its horseshoe driveway a half-loop of time.

The wind beats the hills like carpets and orange pollen

tumbles down. I wish you could show me again the black-and-white

picture of your mother playing Juliet in Paris, the sleeves of her dress

flaring like trumpet flowers. It’s summer. The stars come out;

in what tense they shine, I’ve never been clear. Shutting my eyes,

pulling the rough white sheet to my chin, I listen to the sparrows

closing the trees, someone laughing, and in the leaves the rain picking up

exactly where it left off eight years ago one August morning.