Zest Lit Issue 2, October 2013 - Page 149

Two Days | Steve Klepetar

later I can hardly

remember your face, blurred

like a windshield sweating

in morning fog. It’s your skin

I feel on my fingertips as if I’d

stumbled through another door,

one with a handle of smooth

brass, scent of metal and salt

and rising heat. You were a

map of the world, each tattoo

emblazoned with color and light,

those red and green scars pointing

toward a horizon of waves.

Day dimmed to a single point, all

that mass pulling us in, squeezing

our nerves in a micro web

of connection, a greeting on our lips

and teeth, another way of taking

the long route home. All that music

running through our blood, ears

inflamed with sound, green curry

burning in our eager mouths,

hands sticky and stained,

wild pulse at our tender throats.