Incomplete Aubade

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I’ll rest here with you for a time. Yellow butterflies drifting past heavy headed wheat, your hand in mine, the black earth warm beneath our grey wool sheet. The sun dabbing freckles upon my cheeks.

This is the time my Granddad almost caught us. His tractor rumbling, as I snap shirt buttons and you force feet hard into leather boots. God your smile is something. Your hand shading blue-green-gold eyes, looking up at Granddad on that old John Deere. Smiling, inviting him to our picnic. Waving him down for cucumber and mayonnaise, ham and cheese. My panties tucked beneath your hat. It should have lasted forever. The sunlight’s so empty without you. Stay a while longer.

Take me one more time to the fountain in the city. I don’t remember the water being this warm. But the rocks, they shone like this in the misty globe-light of antique street lamps. Don’t push me in; I don’t want to get this dress wet. We’re ankle-deep on slippery rocks. The leaves of groomed trees rattle like Spanish maracas in the wind; their cascading music masking the city cacophony just beyond our reach.

I won’t push you, you say. The gold sparks in your eyes betray your secret — they always did. I’m skipping away, hopping from stone to stone, but your stride is long and swift and I’m quickly in your arms, laughing, surrendering. One arm holds me tight to your chest, the other slides down my back, my butt, my thighs, and scoops me up. Twirling, laughing, the music of the trees, your heartbeat, the mad dash to the waterfall, the white spray of water breaking over your face, my face, my chest, your hands. You lower me to my feet and I am nothing but yours, here beneath the water, the street lamps, the stars. The red dye of my dress slides down my legs, pools in the water, stains my white flesh, marks me for days.

I am still marked and waiting for the fading of this old pain. I reach your familiar resting place, run fingers over your headstone, sweep balsam fluff and dust away. I know it’s time I slip off of this white-gold ring, cradle it between satin pillows, close the velvet lid, and let sunlight strike the finger flesh white band and fill it with tan.

Tell me it’s going to be okay, then take me down to the field one last time. This time an evening Granddad won’t find us. This time I’ll wear cut-off shorts and my hair in braids. You’ll take my hand and walk with me through rows of curled hay. You’ll lay me down by the stream and take me one last time today.

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Sapphire_O
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3 Comments
Bill DadaBill Dadaover 16 years ago
^

Sadly powerful. You really captured how much he filled up your life and how hard it is to let go of someone who is no longer there.

LeBrozLeBrozover 16 years ago
~~

This poem was mentioned in Tuesday's New Poems Reviews.

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bluerainsbluerainsover 16 years ago
am not

very good at being a person to critique ..but , this has a nice even flow ...laid back and placed well to the mind to feel the images and the message...I enjoyed reading it...bluerains