by Rebecca Lu Kiernan
I leave your salmon-pink beach house
And the sea foam whisper of your seven acres.
I leave the chessboard staircase
That spiraled to your cherry bed.
I leave your emerald irises
Red licorice candles and silk lavender sheets
And lips that said my name in Braille.
I leave your razor silver key
And the new address for my mail.
I sell your love to myself.
I imagine you were drugged by the Russians
And cannot remember
My fingers through your neon, wheat blonde hair,
The broken moons of Jupiter through the telescope,
Naked boat rides in the silence of your violet lake,
Me milking you with my throat on the porch swing,
My eyes closing against the rage of your violin,
The sight of silver starlings dancing in the lilac after rain.
Copyright © 2010 by
Rebecca Lu Kiernan