Confetti

Like silver and white confetti, the stars
I could have thrown into the sky,
and on my fingers the clean smell
of leftover light from comet tails
grazing my skin. They leave a taste
of wood ash on the tongue,
the dark kiss of sleep that Stefan's lips
touched sweet in Istanbul on a night
we had no need to pretend
throwing the stars.

The slippery flower of sorrow won't let go
but he was sweet as a lemon and squeezed me dry
in that happy prison we came back to,
the nearest star speaking in tongues,
the heaviest stone on earth
dancing, as I do with very old light
that is late in arriving and comes so far.

copyright 2004 Jeanne Lohmann
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