Lucia

My hair, voluminous from sleeping in

six different positions, redolent with your scent,

helps me recall that last night was indeed real,

that it's possible for a bedspread to spawn

a watershed in the membrane that keeps us

shut in our own skins, mute without pleasure,

that I didn't just dream you into being.

You fit like a fig in the thick of my tongue,

give my hands their one true purpose,

find in my shoulder a groove for your head.

In a clinch, you're clenched and I'm pinched,

we're spooned, forked, wrenched, lynched

in a chestnut by a mob of our own making,

only to be resurrected to stage several revivals

that arise from slightest touch to thwart

deep sleep with necessities I never knew

I knew until meeting you a few days

or many distant, voluptuous lifetimes ago.