Water doesn’t meander, it just looks that way
from somewhere above, sweeping curves
all choosing (or are they chosen for?)
the path of least resistance; there is no time
to waste, only the scurrying voice of haste
From the hill I can see the river where tomorrow
we will go fishing and I stand on the left of
where you cast and the swept hook buries itself
into my hand and yanks and I cry out ‘Stop!’
Your fear disguised as anger as you pull the barb out.
Or how you and I walked to the sound of the rain
And we stopped before the lights, under the trees
tapping out the rhythm of a thousand dripping leaves
and I kissed you softly, just once, the taste of you
and my mind stopped its wavering chatter. Silence.
And then like a dam burst we could not stop,
refused to walk straight home, meandering streets,
clothes stuck to skin – your skin! how soft it was
how real your body was against mine, a torrent
of sensation in the torrents of rain that fell.
And the way you would greet me, a punch
on the arm, so violent – for a girl – and your
blue eyes and the way you looked at me when my hand
meandered across your body, fingers lazily dragged
across your hair, your breasts, your belly.