All this looking is reciprocal,
I can say, alarmed by this darker
weekend of movement,
of celluloid metaphors and how
striped and dancing we greet each other.
In this flint I could wear your hour,
be spent loving something
more hesitant, more like a crocus,
even more prismatic in its
maze hope. Instead I am confused
and dream of orange trees,
reach for half an orange. I split
sidewise, where my re-growing
keeps peeling to a skinned want.
I take it up in my undone mouth,
why can’t we get what we
are good for, how you can be all this:
lonely, enumerating. There is not
enough time when you live this far away.
I can love you but this dancing
is just a hanged wish for connecting
face to mouth, mouth to hand, hand
to Cat Stevens record.
I’m gathering speeding tickets here
like pine cones. Goodbye to that animal
stomping, that gash of solidness
from you, this cinema another anchor
of small stars. The nighttime on my body
breathes. The blue ridges of my eyelids
fill up the mirror. We are mostly lonely
when we change. I can be better
and write this again.
Gale Marie Thompson is the author of Soldier On (Tupelo Press 2015) and Expeditions to the Polar Seas (Coconut Books 2016), in addition to two chapbooks. Her work appears in Guernica, Best New Poets 2012, Colorado Review, Volt, Better, The Volta, and elsewhere. She is creator and editor of Jellyfish Magazine and lives, teaches, and writes in Athens, GA.