Читать книгу Tart Honey - Deborah Burnham - Страница 5

Because at Monday’s dawn I kiss you hard

and won’t touch your sweet mouth or hair again

until Friday’s worked itself to shadow;

Because the years we’ve kissed add up to more

than those remaining to us, because

I want to squeeze time like an orange—

drinking the sweet juice, sweet flesh, eating

even the pith, the rind, wishing to find

another orange growing in the bitter seeds—

I’ve sent my dreams an order: no more

meandering through shadowed forests, no

casual lust for plums or single malt.

The new dream stays at home, to seize the time,

improve each shining dawn or midnight hour.

In Monday’s dream, your hand sits on my thigh;

On Tuesdays, your cheek rests in my palm

like a willing apple; by Wednesday, our

feet are tangled, eager, and determined

to stay ensnared in one another. By

Friday, I’ll have dreamed each limb and part

together, recalled the temperature and shape

of your absent body, making present what is far,

holding all that threatens to dissolve, disperse,

solid as the orange, distance’s tart honey.