I fell in love with how everything
seemed always to be touching her.
Golden down covered her skin
like an invitation.

Every so often she would
tilt her head upward
and the planes would arrange
themselves into the angle
the sun had ravished.

On the tip of my finger
and around my neck,
I can still feel the thinness
of the chain she wore,
as if anything more substantial
might undo her.

She held the profusion
of her body with a restraint
that made her clothing,
tailored though it was,
a violation, her touchability
a longing, stretching out
in all directions.

I remember my disappointment
hearing later that she had taken up
with a man whose hobby it was,
the taming of she-wolves.

I was told she succumbed
out of loneliness, but I know
it was her lambent skin,
the heavy ache
of that bright flower.

appears in the July 2007 edition of Illuminations