Rite of Spring

Cocooned in wrinkled sheets, I wake to taps
Of rain, alone in your bed. A salty
Air fills the room with electricity.

You’ve left for work, your briny vinegar
Still on my tongue, essence of thunderstorms
We summoned from our bodies before dawn.

I pick up yesterday’s clothes.
From among perfumes
And matchbooks on your dresser I find

Your tortoiseshell comb, its scent like the rain
Returning through the day, a sudden flooding
Memory of your soft hair.

Ephemeral as a quick kiss, it leaves
A feral hunger, gnawing dry bones.

This poem has yet to be published.