LEATHA KENDRICK
VOYAGE
At the southwest corner of the house,
the chimes elbow the dark
with jangled music, angular
as Picasso’s demoiselles. Flattened
I twist beneath their metallic clangor.
His arm across my shoulder, my body
zigzags across the bed. Cubist, I am triangled
against him. My womb oozes some last dark blood
onto the white rectangle. Ahead my lover dreams my angles sleek
for the long haul, some sailboat fitted for the journey out.
But now my days are crosshatched
by the elementary calendar—
hedged with academic competitions,
spring vacation—the smooth slant
of my forward motion,
roughened. His arm removed,
I sigh, released. I drift—not out,
but toward his length,
as boats touch, gravity-chained,
secured by
a common
pier.
