Texture of Her Secrets

The shapes of animals
move against her skin
in the dim light, the
forest reaching out
to touch the essence,
sick with need like
I was then, sick with
want for the texture
of her secrets beneath
my palm.

With wind susurrating,
the quiet mutter of the
aspens above, the plaintive
call of one bird for another—
one who doesn’t ever answer,
but only maintains his hunger
in silence, and the squirrels
who are forever scolding,
now struck dumb by
what she is and what she
has been.

There is no asking voice,
no questions chiding me
deep into nights of purple
city glow, the knowing
nature of my loss so
clear, like animal shapes
as they move upon her
skin, and how all the
leaves of every bush
lean toward her as
she passes.