After Summer Fell Apart

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I can’t touch you.
His face always returns; 
we exchange long looks 
in each bad dream 
& what I see, my God. 
Honey, sweetheart, 
I hold you against me 
but nothing works. 
Two boats moored, 
rocking between nowhere
& nowhere.
A bone inside me whispers
maybe tonight,
but I keep thinking
about the two men wrestling nude 
in Lawrence’s Women in Love.
I can’t get past
reels of breath unwinding.
He has you. Now
he doesn’t. He has you 
again. Now he doesn’t.

You’re at the edge of azaleas 
shaken loose by a word. 
I see your rose-colored 
skirt unfurl.
He has a knife
to your throat,
night birds come back 
to their branches.
A hard wind raps at the door, 
the new year prowling 
in a black overcoat. 
It’s been six months 
since we made love. 
Tonight I look at you 
hugging the pillow, 
half smiling in your sleep. 
I want to shake you & ask 
who. Again I touch myself, 
unashamed, until
his face comes into focus. 
He’s stolen something 
from me & I don’t know 
if it has a name or not—
like counting your ribs 
with one foolish hand 
& mine with the other.

© Yusef Komunyakaa