Jessica Moore

my time with a woman

I was thinking about light coming in
through white curtains,
the smell of ocean and sage
and fresh laundry. I felt beautiful
but also interrupted.
The woman’s voice was a bird, flying
in a hot wind, battered,
you enjoy anything you’re good at.
She was as proud as if she
herself created the meadowlark.
She reminded me of the tarot card
twenty-seven names for tears.
I just wanted to eat regularly.
This was not about being forgotten.

That year I craved suitcases,
I was making altars inside them.
It all seemed wrapped in plastic,
unreal like stewardesses, returned
like a slide show. I laughed, bitter
as nightshade. She was my life raft,
my turtle. On a full moon night
something moved her.
We slept on a new beach,
she ordered peach tea,
I sketched naked. How lovingly
she arranged the dark leaves,
the white blooms. The hot wind blew
and blew and would not stop.

Source & Method