National Gallery of Art

I can recall the breathless moment:
Heart knowing to stop for love before feet,
a quick about-face grinding sparks
on marble flooring. Lace curtains
fluttering on a salty breeze.
His name was Wyeth.

I was 17; he was immortal.
I could not love him less.
7 years passed before he found me
on a desert honeymoon.
My new husband humored the meeting.
All together, we watched an approaching storm
amble over Arizona peaks, the taste of salt
hot on our tongues, etched landscapes
burning bright in electric afterglow.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

Blog at WordPress.com.

Up ↑

Create your website at WordPress.com
Get started
%d bloggers like this: