Iseult

The same space on

which we lay together for

five weeks — till our bones aged —

now only a bed near a dagger of light.

My gut feels no time, but my head

feels no rest. Parts of you lingering

with the same eucalyptus

that made your skin blush and grow,

A surface, I can barely recall

under these nerves.

Let’s make it bad again, and make it

right.