Penumbra
(after Kristy Bowen)
By Susan Slaviero

Still, there’s an Egyptian
tint to my hair between
your fingertips, my stomach

beneath your forearms.
The topaz pendant drops
like moonset, all that elderberry

in the wine bottle, the bitter
skins of their bodies.
Years and I’ve been plucking

the roots in the evenings,
filaments beneath the tabletops,
while sleek cats nestle, smoky tailed,

in my bathtub. Charcoal spies.
Cells ache in the morning
where a journal lies—

is still empty—whispering
in the ochre pages.
Together, we smolder the sheets

like balsa wood in a cheap fireplace.
Still, I have a language for it.
For blank. For hush.

Echoes collect in my throat cords.
Even my syllables are crushed.

© 2007 prickofthespindle.com