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Orange Visor
by Jacklyn Attaway
You
are sweet and dusty wild mouth open over my open mouth and hair of christened
babies holy night wet blooming roses that shake with heavy nightcool
drops. The lips make way for the
teeth and the eyes grow sleepy with desire starved and pained and a whimper
escapes your throat for mercy and no mercy in the same lackbreathed plea.
And
then there is her open mouth cooing.
Her pursed lips over breasts cooing. Her gentle mother baby to her chest cooing you. And I am the cloying petrichor and
wisteria and rotting flesh of spring’s love-hungry new creatures. I all cloying and she all cooing.
And
you drawn more by sound than smell.
You more music than instinct.
And I all instinct set to music.
But
her cooing. Her sweet hum
cooing. Her round breasts full
cooing. And my angry heavy
cloying. My noxious dizzy
confederate jasmine cloying.
And
alone, I wait and watch the sun setting orange. More like an autumn sunset than a spring. More orange and burning slash pine and
rattlesnake.
The
people in their cars at five o’clock rush hour so close to one another but
isolated in their closeness. And I
one of them isolated in the sunset and the future of and without you. To blink and awaken as from a
dream.
The
orange visor. The quiet revelry. My eyes still and vacant. Light washing vision to visionless
thought.
Tonight
while I am in your arms. Tonight
when you are inside me and the oceans are closing over my head, I will think of
this moment in orange isolation. I
will think of this moment as if I have blinked and been transported to the
future. Only the future will be
present, the thought past.
Now
I blink to that moment. Now I
intercept time in the manner I know time will overtake me.
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