Scheherazade
       

Tell me again how the skies opened for winter
and birds took to the thickest branches of pines.
The green in your eyes was enough to spark paper.

I thought the baskets of cones were all broken,
the pieces glued back together making
a ship for two. Crayons marked the walls

with oceans. The wax pooled in small crevices,
warming the room where you held me close
on nights of difficult lust. Darkness

is a greedy thing. We thought we understood
the dress draping the radiator, the stains
on our shoes. There was never enough time

for the collection of eggs or the division
of property. What is here is ours for the taking.
Even now, inside these last hours,

abundance is found in the fusion of our mouths
and in the blue plums left on the table.

Copyright © 2010 Jayne Pupek All rights reserved
from The Livelihood of Crows
Mayapple Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission