← v16n2, Fall 2017Poetry · 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.
