I Touch You in the Dark, by Steve Klepetar

And my lips freeze, my hair becomes
a blizzard of gray and silver, follicles
rising from my head, those upside-down

icicles bristling with cold. I feel
your hand, that rudder steering my red
heart along some shadow-wooded path

into a clearing of women wrapped
in the stillness of their heavy coats,
shoulder to shoulder, yet each alone

with her private grief. It’s through your

eyes I see them, faces crumpled and
dissolving into tears, their wrinkled hands

a symphony of silent wails. Too late to roll
away, I touch your back, that smooth field
of longing and regret. My fingers burn

their way along your neck and hair,
I gasp for breath. Swimming in your scent
I struggle toward the far shore, my arms

desperate in the search for you. I touch
your face, cheekbones sculpted beneath
your vibrant flesh of leaves and cream

longing for my first taste of you.