No.73, 2010 Her Captured Breeze by Michael Maxfield
The young man stares at silver upon silver,
a ceiling, a lack of reflection, a mirror paved
with rough texture. Silvery is the voice resting
at his side. Something delicate submerged in
puddles of esoteric stillness. What words are
spoken in dreams beside him? How deep is
her fear? He listens and listens...then sandpaper.
Now he watches her chest, breasts stretched
and relaxed. Shallow arches rising, falling.
Her mouth weak and open. Again comes the
texture that scrapes his heart. He wants to wake
her...(trepidation)...no, he only wants to listen,
wanting to be her waves upon the silk shore,
be her captured breeze that will not slip from air.
A fragment of silence stiffens, and a curled lock
of hair slides down her cheek. He hears the slight
sound again, and becomes the porcelain that is
her face. She exhales, and he chases her breath
like the wings of a Monarch Butterfly, escaping
the cold where the ice of air can be measured.
Just a tickled nerve, a twitch in her throat,
moisture or a nano cloud of saliva. He gives
himself to the sheets, staring at the haunting
ceiling, the rough texture, no reflection,
silver upon silver.
Her eyes open to see svelte morning light
absorbing into the crystal bowl on her night
stand, empty. She looks at her lover in bed,
his hand relaxed, holding her inhaler at the
frayed edge of her pillow, asleep. Under the
window the pretty Monarch pulls towards nectar,
a healthy golden rod. In the glory of the warmth,
the Monarch doesn’t ponder the cold.