aubade

 

 

 

you wake me with the ceaseless exploration

of my body by your hand. we are closest

before the sun’s ascension, when the room’s

as gray & brittle as an old woman’s fingers,

 

our limbs tangled like weeds

sprouting from the sheets. i whisper

sweet pleads with morning’s sour breath

as you finger the waistband of the striped boxers

 

i sleep in. you give in &

give me all of you.             we come

as the sun illuminates the room in gold.

groggy and sated, you defend us

 

against the impending day,

swathing us in blankets plucked from the floor

as we untangle ourselves from each other.

the clock turns, starts the incessant cry of my alarm,

 

as easily ignored as a newborn.

i roll out of bed, enrobed in the scent

of your warm skin and worn out deodorant.

you watch with half-open eyes

 

while i roll the stockings you like so much –

with the runs from fingernails – up my legs.

 

 

 

nathalie kirsch is a boston-based poet. some of her work is forthcoming from electric cereal. she holds a bfa in creative writing (poetry) and hopes to receive an mfa in the not-too-distant future. her favorite pastimes include drinking too much coffee, body modification, spending money she doesn’t have, and making plans to break plans.