The lan­guage of our sighs

SARAH NAKA­MURA

Room Magazine - - SIMMONDS -

and then there was the time i thought i was a saint.

when the slow-creep­ing tide pulls me un­der un­der and i for­get that we made love on the front lawn, the grass and mos­qui­toes prick­ing be­neath the thin­ness of our skin,

skinny-dip­ping in frigid wa­ter at mid­night and that other time i burnt pita in the betty crocker toaster oven and you fanned the smoke out onto the bal­cony with a towel.

when i for­get the snow fall­ing like leonard cohen’s dust motes the night you took me skat­ing in nathan phillips square, the tulip i’ve planted and the cig­a­rettes we’ve smoked and how to parse the lan­guage of our sighs:

wear my name close against your skin. it is frag­ile as awak­en­ing, all baby bird bones and tea-can­dles, the first steps of a new­born colt, but i prom­ise it will hold.

wear it close as skin and the heat of your body will keep it safe for my re­turn.

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