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Gina Tabasso
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Where They Stay
Her heart is dark but sanded smooth
like polished rocks to skip on water.
His hands hold stones, her body his pockets.
Together they sail and glide. She ripples
as if waves will drown her, she sings
a song though she can’t hold a note.
This siren stranded off the coast,
this sailor who straps himself to the mast.
He touches her with a circling movement,
hips and currents, tongues and whorls
of fingerprints and ears, hair spiraling
shafts of sunlight and, when it rains,
she soaks him in like dirt, sanded plaster
on the table, soft dust in the corners
of stairs leading to the bedroom-
his sweat, his cheek on the sheet,
her clothes held to his face, his sweater
and her nectar are the apple, the path
in the arboretum, the Indian mounds
and flint ridge, the cat kneading the chair,
a hackled dog with no bone to chew,
no worry in sight. With nothing to fear,
she calls her father to tell him
of her love for this man,
tempts fairies with butter
to thank them for their gift-
somewhere she can finally sleep.
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