Nocturnes

Bodies

My blood is autumnal but my body follows summer’s dogma: boardwalk wood dashed with salt, bleached white houses and tanned, weathered fingers like the rings of a tree inside the curve of my pale, stockingless leg, the red moon chased down by the thunderstorm at high tide, pruned fingers with the nails bitten off, the ocean playing the chameleon of mother, father, lover, womb….

My downy, light brown hairs left on the pillow at night that turns to morning turns to night and the hellions that I let sit outside my window with nothing to offer but the aging of wine on tongues and the promise that these times will always be right now.