lovebug

the sun cracks

and rains in shards

through a grove of

slouching pines

 

where our bodies bathe

in amber pools 

and rest in beds

of stinging nettles

 

and we take turns

crushing jewelweed

into the welts

that bloom scarlet 

across our backs

 

watching mare’s tails

spin endlessly like 

a hypnotist’s spiral 

while we wait for

the sky to burst

 

our fingers entangled

like lovebugs

until night spills

from a wound

in the blue 

 

and even after all

I’ve done and 

even though the ghost

of my affairs

lives under your skin

 

you still tilt my head

and help me drink 

the last of our wine

from your cupped palm

 

as every flower in

the garden drones:

something terrible 

has happened to us

Connor Thorpe lives in Vancouver, Canada. His work has appeared in the Antigonish Review (#177 and #189).

©2018 HighShelfPress. 

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