It was dark when we got there.
The lamp above the lintel
was too small for so much darkness.
The door was unlocked, just as she’d said,
and when we opened it and called her name
we heard the echo in the passageway.
Hand in hand we followed the sound along the corridor,
up the stone staircase,
across the gallery and into the light.

She’d left the curtains open.
You sat near her in the window seat
and I saw stars shine through your far reflections.
I heard your voices
saying herbs and pottery and hives
like two off-duty druid priestesses.
You spoke as if I weren’t there.

When you laughed and leaned together
strands of her hair caught in yours
and yours in hers.
I heard your voices
saying lavender and fire and queens.
And where the strands drifted apart
I saw your reflections out there, your backs towards me.
I said nothing, afraid you’d come in from the night
with your lips, your tongues dripping with honey and flames.

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This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 2 Number 10, on page 45
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