so many/no time/too late now
They’ve already seeded a new generation,
those old lovers with the moon in their eyes,
hair tapping a Morse Code onto my breasts
and tie-dyes flung over the random chair.
We thought the sixties would be our time warp,
our tunnel away from our parents’ path, but
my lost spouse sleeps in his own room,
indifference, his new mistress.
No man touches me that way anymore.
Not with his tide rising and spewing.
Not with his kiss scorching the room like a comet.
My hands knit together,
a pinprick of blood stains chaste sheets.
– Pris Campbell
from Words Dance 12, Fall 2008