A Song in the Key of Adultery
by Deidre Price
by Deidre Price
Fat drops hit ground,
wet they writhe
while I write here
in a room with a bed
that’s not mine.
How far they fall
is not as clear
as they are.
Stars see they start
in clouds of air,
puffs that put self
to shame as skies
are big but I
am not.
Just how they start
is not as clear
as they are:
Does sound birth them?
A slight light to pierce through it all?
Does rain find its self in night?
Or catch a sight of its shape in the sun?
Rain days bring my mind to the witch.
She starts the same way, I’m sure.
A witch is not.
Then one day, she just is.
Her crag hands.
Her bird feet.
She is loved.
Then one day, she is not.
If you are rain, a witch,
or one who sits
in a room with a bed
that’s not yours
and waits on one
who is not your own
who will not be your own
but that you still call your own,
you can’t help that you are
what you are.
