One evening this October, I’ll take your face
between my hands.
The summer heat will have only just burnt off again
abate again at bay again
into the hibernation that started me squirming
to feel the heat between your thighs. We lean back:
Hasbro hourglass on its side. Drip of salt
water at the tip of my nose.
I’ll cordon off my plot
in the Chelsea garden, pull, at last, the garlic
bulbs, twist fibrous braids, and hang from the rafters,
forgive the grasses and any weeds,
sweep the perimeter, turn
the soil once more
and lie again in wait with you.
Another Summer spent swimming in lakes
because (cosmic joke)
you never learned how to tread water.
But we burnt paths in the arresting snow:
a restless sleep.
H. Martin is a poet and adult educator from Massachusetts. She currently lives with her partner in New York, where she studies poetics. Recent work has focused on issues relating to ecology, queerness, borders, and class.
