Your hair is thick and dark

evergreen branches that glide

against lilac petals 
made of powdered sugar.

I wish your hands were not so rough,

when you mold my body out of clay

you leave divots, not as deep

as tire tracks in snow
but tiny deer prints

left behind in secret

the kind where the mystery

makes you follow them into the thicket.

Strum that song again, 
the one you played, laughing

at the silliness of knowing

every chord, even though we both

silently love it. Don't talk to me

about intimacy problems

because you know I would have

loved you, more

then children with fried dough

the kind that comes from county
fairs
and you can't look at me

like that, with painful eyes

'cause we're both guilty.

What happens to women without
 men?
Running fingers over bare
hills, hoping to once again

be covered with fur trees

thick and dark. So catch me

with those that match

your pea coat that smells

sweetly of cigarettes

and stories only known

by haylofts and cotton pillows.