The dress is laid upon the bed. Flowers
line the mantel, petals drooping with heat.
The guests arrive flushed, dabbing beads of sweat
from foreheads. The woman of the hour
stands in her slip, suddenly uncertain.
It is not you that I fear—you and I
are smooth as wine, sweet as strawberry pie,
we are diamond stars lighting the heavens.
If only love were as simple as rays
from a star, streaming heedless through the night.
No word is fit for the gift of a heart
that, trembling, sets forth on a path no chart
can foretell; I gave mine long ago, quite
innocent, promise binding all my days.

Volume 1, Issue 2, 2007