← v17n2, Fall 2018
Poetry · Volume 17, Number 2

Mate Madrigal

Which was it said take me with you—

body or mind? Which leapt first

toward him, walking in dusk’s molten ingot

transversing the lawn, as a lone swan thirsted,

blue geisha on the fake lake, dragging in wake

foam’s bridal train. As if they were colliding,

constellations & colostrum awoke beneath lace,

cells, ovaries, already recalculating to new tides,

weft, then warp, though I couldn’t move.

The future did not love us yet. I loved it.

Pale with oil, with fingertips of snow, then kindling,

I brushed the enchant, the loom, his woolen jacket.

A gesture chaste enough. Touch just a whisper.

But in that synaptic stitch I was named forever.