A Road in the Sky
        ITHACA, NY

It wouldn't be held—
this notion, slipknot

spring, park that pushed
its own banks, spilled vines

over the lookout. O North
I've never understood, capricious

cloud and gaze, lush
and then snow, that snap-

dragon give & take. But we were warm

a moment, and still on
our backs, where winter grass questioned

the margins of skin, and trees tossed
dark like paper cutouts, or lace that ripped

if spoken of too soon.
I am the screen, she said, on which

you throw your passion,
as if I'd rendered her

a level plane
to call an interruption. If that, then

what was my language? Please, please:

raw color without
conduit, the buttercups'

fevered form. Perhaps it's true

that what had drawn me
to her, at first, was reflection: narcissus

eye on eye, dart pressed
to dart. Collar turned back

when she allowed me
to open it, let my hand

be the bearing
towards —visible, or not— whatever cyan

we might cross. In that pivot

from day to black, a blinking jet
traced an axis above us, and I said

to her, the pilot's
daughter: cut the veil; even the sky

feels owned. How easily

she lifted the aqua hem
of my dress, but scolded

when I moved
closer, etched my face

into her skin. This was the map: my willing

mouth parted, tasting wild
yonder, her hair's bitter oat.

Tweet

Copyright © 2013 Elizabeth Lindsey Rogers All rights reserved
from Chord Box
University of Arkansas Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission