Drunk at a conference - so why not post a poem?!

Coming Home

I love the way your hand moves
always to lie upon the curve of my hip.

As though it is a crescent bay
your touch returning again and again
rising and lowering like the tides.

A heavenly body
your hand circling in orbit before
landing gently on the surface.

I hope that to you
it feels like home.
I imagine you feel a vague restless longing;
that something undefinable
makes every return a homecoming.

the smell of woodsmoke

a front porch light

that you know I am here waiting.

southern martyr
1-11-10

I'm proud of myself for putting SOMETHING up every week here lately. My muse has taken to whispering in my ear again. May he linger past the heartbreak this time around.