Surely volumes have been written about the nape of a woman's neck,
the small of her back, the velvet earlobe. But let me add, the dip
by a man's hipbone, the swell to his belly. The beat in the back
of the knee, the soft warm crease, the thrumming tendon. We are
all always aching from convex to concave. The clay goddess
echoes the vase for next year's roses, and the intent.
The cities on riverbanks. Mountain passes. The port, the door,
the lip unfurled. I dare not, I must. Into the dark of winter
and our many wombs, the cold rage of the world and its death wish.
And the summer, with its slow rivers and sleepy blues, hot-humid
as bodies of spent lovers. I cannot help but think of Assyrian corpses.
The delusional heat swings west and and we are some bronze age stillbirth,
ringed in bangles and floating in honey. But quicken in the fall,
that cusp. At night our blankets crackle with static, and mornings
knuckles crack to cold and pull in bushels, prune back the branches.
To batten down til the sun corners round the edge of everything.
The orbit curves. All buds and almosts bursting into yes.


Tammy Bendetti writes and paints on Colorado's Western Slope, where she lives with her husband and two little girls. In her spare time she enjoys dancing badly and drinking dangerous amounts of coffee.