It has taken thirty-five years to be this confident
of what happens between the noun and the verb.
Eventually, love goes. The image. Then the thought.
No? Then you are still alive. Only a little. And then,
I do not mean to depress you. Men have to hear
before they see. Sacred vows. Dropped shirts.
Women do not speak to men. They are overheard.
Sadness mounts people. Around the burn-scar high
on one thigh, the body of the beloved will vanish.
And the come cries and salt hair-smells of lovemaking.
I am so enamored of Rodney Jones’ poetry right now. I ordered his collection, Salvation Blues, after reading three of his poems, and I’ve since read many more of them.
image: The Toll-House of Lust by Anna Ignatieva