Nocturne

        after Ruth Awad

--Aime Whittemore

Like a violin waiting the bow,

when I thirst, I dream

of bobcats,

dream of bluegills, alligators,

whales, creeks, hot air

balloons, fatherless

animals, windless

coasts, abandoned homes.

I push into the unabashed

territories of longing—violets,

mornings, meadows, tongues—

and the world is delicious again.

We have no idea how to live here.

To forget how you tasted those leggy afternoons

when our bodies spilled

like wine across the floor,

is to admit a hawk into the house.

Is to wring a rag of water.

When I'm in the thicket

with my smaller hungers,

I don't need to know every cave

and what it stores, cool

and damp, for you. I don't need

to know how many nests

are lined with your hair.

There's nothing tame about twilight,

this old song shaking the sweetgum leaves—

when I thirst I dream

like a violin waiting the bow.