When Your Eyes Spoke Love by Magdalene Pizzo

The air filters bright through thin clouds
Forces eyes to squint at you: a knee poking up from late-afternoon grass, a hand ruffling fur
tipped gold among blades tipped gold.
I feel the hollow of your presence, scooped from inside and transplanted perfect full-
formed piece of me no longer.
I miss that pressure, the heat of your hands.
I miss the way your eyes smile in the sunlight; my sunlight.
Call together scattered faces, turn away before you look up, swallow choking breath to
I am not there; I am within myself
dizzy, organs coiled so heart lies sick in stomach, lungs forget to pulse, brain beats for them

That other patch of grass under the trees, fingers pressing into cinnamon dough
Molding it, oozing it between fingers, cool, cooling sweaty palms.
It is salty, sucks moisture from the creases, latches, leeches, leaves fingers tingling with
want of water.
Bend it into the shape of your voice.
Imprint the pressure of your heavy love, tying intestines, choking lungs, beating heart.
My fingers are sticky and sweet-smelling: your collar in September.
I bury my nose in the webbing
Shut my eyes on dappled sunlight, open them in the memory of sweaty hands and organs