Certainties

There are certainties in you,

made known when you're in me,

that disappear when we speak

in apologetic tones

(and doors use voices

not creaks,

and ruminate woodenly

on the widow

of your peak)

about what exactly we're doing here

and the hard insistence and peaceful strength of you

become liquid hopeful and easily steered.

Certain, yes,

that you like my taste

and i like your wiry waist,

and how we ride together,

so firmly
(squirming)

braced,

and how there's never enough time

and maybe if there was

how it wouldn't be the same?

And what sense,

goddammit,

what kind of sense does it make

(our endless fingering

of this dog-eared page)

that if we had the time

we'd lose the place,
slamming the cover of this book we're writing,
curtail blank pages,
daring and frightening.

© Sara Gaddis 2010