Poetry

New Year's Eve Fragment

After the party, when fires are fallow,

cork doors yawn like bells pealed backwards, and

a hand is taken. Far gone in a pitcher of lavender wine,

the lounge conspires a tip, and spills

us onto a rug. Down grinning, a-squint at

His shy feet, when folded, remind me

I’ve always slept alone here, and when kisses

skirt nervous lips, it’s always this:

the spare and sallow mattress. In that instance, I’ve been lower

sinking sudden tumblers, and boy, if you’re

listening, your glance is a gift - a proof,

more than flesh, that you’re here, facing me.

Jay Lawrance