cloves and cypress

she thinks about hips
the hips of women
she arches her back
pushes against the sheets
flexed feet, sweat-covered breasts.
there's something about waiting
maybe, that can change your mind
when you don't mean to.
she thinks about hips,
the hips of women.

that body of yours, that i leave all alone (ex 4)

two people come out of a building. she's upset, her posture curled. she's trying to protect herself. the fingers on her right hand are circled around her left wrist. her eyebrows are pointing down, her mouth is set in a straight line and she's looking at the ground. he's talking, moving his eyebrows too much, shrugging shoulders. they are in the middle of something. as they walk down the street you can tell that he's saying something important. she holds her left wrist, her elbows jutting against her waist, her messenger bag hitting her hip. his hands are in the air, the steps he is taking are far apart. a man with a stroller comes down the street and she moves to right and he follows behind her single file. when the stroller is past them she keeps the same pace, walking with her shoulders hunched, and he has to quicken his pace for two steps to catch up. but his rhythm hasn't actually changed, he is still talking and moving his hands.
this is the problem with young people. they fall in love and make plans with each other but they are supposed to be selfish. she is supposed to go to graduate school for biochemics, he is supposed to move across the country for an architecture internship. but still his hands are moving and her mouth is closed in a thin straight line and their hearts are both beating a little quicker. they walk down the street trying to find a place in the sidewalk where they can both have what they want. the sun catches on her hair, the wind presses his t-shirt to the muscles in his chest.

young lovers with their legs tied up in knots

there's not a lot i wouldn't do. watch her tiptoe through the hallways, rustling fabrics and knocking against woodwork while hiding candy-coloured easter eggs. rest my elbows on the counter while i lean against the bar and watch her move and twirl with her friends, faces dewy and hair stuck with sweat. i know there was this one time she told jella that she didn't want to go to prince edward island with me. said if she wanted to sit in a wood-paneled shit hole she could visit her parents. there's not a lot i wouldn't have done with her. prince edward island was supposed to be a place for us transplant our roots, to push into the red soil and be those functional young adults we always knew we had to turn into. it was my plan, it was mine. she didn't have to agree, she didn't have to echo my soft ambition. lying between cool sheets in the dark, planning out our lives in whispers. now my mental road map, a highlighted migration east, seems too spacious for one. visions of myself, conversation-starved and manic, falling out the window of my pick-up truck, or driving in a sleep-deprived trance and slamming into the fiery eyes of deer. she didn't have to agree to me. i think i'll move north instead.