His Breath is Late November by Christine Garcia


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His Breath is Late November

deep dark rich heady earth.
branches snapping, fire kindled
embers carried on windy winter gusts into star lit skies.
cold puffs of beauty.
it is ancient.

his breath is ancestral and ceremony.
sage smudge honeysuckle breath
on my cheek, rolling smoky
onto my chest in tendrils,
reaching across and down,
always reaching further.

his sighs are hewn nutty oak
pine with hints of fresh dappled cedar,
native aztlán nopales, sandias, chiles, maize,
cottonwood puffs floating on a southwestern breeze
over the endless llano estacado.

when he breathes i have the urge
to thrust my hands into wet mescalero sands and squeeze;
to feel the world rough and thick against my tender skin.

his breath smooths stones like a stream
calm flows of constant pressure,
seemingly silent murmuring
slight waves and tides pulled by the antediluvian earth
carbon complex life giving compounds.

his breath is a heartbeat, an ohm, a soft subtle sigh,
a reminder of his fragility, of my fragility, of what my proximity to him means;
of two bodies coming close enough together to exchange air because love is
recursive particle exchange,
it is the reception of depths,
a coming together of ephemeral bursts of breath, breath, breath.




Christine Garcia

Christine Garcia is a professor and lover of words. She believes that writing is both the salve and the holdfast for the heridas abiertas de la vida. She resides and teaches in lovely Connecticut, but will forever be a desert woman of the Southwest.