After the Fire
You call me honey
alcohol turned vinegar
in your tone
as you flop on the bed
naked.
I hate that word now
hate the rankness of your body
in sleep
hate that all we are is short bursts of intimacy
surrounded by long periods
of separation
hate the charred bones that
are all that’s left
of fire that melted gold
Into skin
I have buried the bones
between the pages of old love letters
and take them out from time
to time
examining them
as if they were still
a thing
of beauty
©2013 by Vincent O’Connor. All rights reserved.
First published in Snail Mail Review.
Photo by Guido Jansen on Unsplash
You call me honey
alcohol turned vinegar
in your tone
as you flop on the bed
naked.
I hate that word now
hate the rankness of your body
in sleep
hate that all we are is short bursts of intimacy
surrounded by long periods
of separation
hate the charred bones that
are all that’s left
of fire that melted gold
Into skin
I have buried the bones
between the pages of old love letters
and take them out from time
to time
examining them
as if they were still
a thing
of beauty
©2013 by Vincent O’Connor. All rights reserved.
First published in Snail Mail Review.
Photo by Guido Jansen on Unsplash
