Knox The True Shape of My Desire
Now I’m again close enough
to Sylvie’s face to feel her breath’s invisible feather
on my lips and the flower
of her damp skin’s heat like it’s offering
up the sunshine it drank in
during the hours we whiled away
talking in lazy circles
on the beach. And also I’m taking
my sweet, sweet time plucking
the lint from her hair. My fingers
journeying through it like foraging
in a forest’s understory, seeking
some precious and delicate fruit.
The machine of my heart thunders
like the washers and dryers that surround us,
the scent of Gain, of Tide. I’m watching
her face for any hint
that she minds my careful attention and seeing
nothing in her eyes’ dark fire to make me
pause, I continue on. She’s sitting still,
like she’s watching a rare bird, long thought extinct.
Still, like she’s trying
to quiet her pulse. Once, when we were pulling out
of a campground, a yappy little
Jack Russell pursued our bus,
for a lot longer than you would have
expected, given his stumpy legs
and round body that said he was denied
few t-r-e-a-t-s, and Aspen said, Man, lil’ dude wants us
so bad but he wouldn’t know
what to do with us if he caught us.
I’m probably no different
from that dog in how
the true shape of my own
desire is a mystery, but I know I’m grieving
the passing of this moment
before I’ve even stopped living it.