There are two or three men
desperate for her.
They beg to see, to touch,
to give her things,
the ocean and coastal terrain.
She’d give in if her head and
heart weren’t tied
up in him, trying to teach her
body not to yearn
for a waterless hill, the tidal waste.
Seconds of minutes of hours of days
wrapped up in him
So much connected to him, it now
belongs to him.
The illusions of shooting stars in
Tonight she can almost see the
constellation or consolation
depending on her vantage point.
Stubborn in her convictions
She clings to the his crest, illiac
and shimmering peaks
She calls for him through a
For a moment she can almost
hear his cadence
but it’s only the whiskey drenched
moans of two or three
other men answering her through
a solid earth.
Resigned to sleep now. She drowns out their sound
Knowing only in singing dreams is the puff and mist of him found.