January 2023

 By Paul Jones

 

Closing the parentheses, completing the question mark, 

the moon across the sun in the eclipse's dark center,

her hooped earrings were circles so large I put my fist through

one like she asked me to. With a slow jangle, she withdrew

leaving my arm looped, shackled, braced for the next near taboo.

Her lips invited my tongue. It answered. Another round,

another roll like snakes that hold their own tails. Going down

seemed endless with her, always familiar but always new.

I knew and she knew too that no circle has jaws or teeth,

no tail-flex, no tip, but our own rounding would have its end

whether, once we tussled, she rested on top or beneath.

Whatever happened I was happy to be half again,

half the circuit, half the lap, half of what we can't unknow,

half of how we made our love's halo in the afterglow.

Half of how we hallowed love's afterglow was our haloes,

the other half was still hidden, what the light could not show.

A secret that we kept in our breath and under our skin.

Under our wet hot skin that wrapped us like a thorny wreath,

but temporary as smoke rings, like the hopes we pretend

are forever, will outlast both bodies and air we breathe.

Blue in her eyes, a miracle to me at twenty-two,

grew as did the sky's own blue as the light brightened at dawn.

Nothing could change that, even at seventy, that's not gone.

That memory keeps that night alive and keeps our shine new.

Even good memory keeps better with a memento: 

I keep one earring under lock. I hope she keeps hers too.

As age answers the old question mark, I hope that her heart

is never undone with love or the curving spines in dark.