DREAM / MOTED / MOTET
The air is saffron with moted dust.
We sit
(on a bale of used clothing
raised and round as a dais).
Joined at the hip,
Gemini’s twins
but with legs facing out, opposite,
mirror fashion.
Left arms crossed inwards,
left hands rest
lightly on the other’s right hip;
I can feel the familiar arc of it
humming through cotton and skin,
the current of relief
turns over the silent, glacial lake within.
We are thisclose
(heads bowed, our temples almost touch).
Your face broken into cubist planes by proximity
seeing the whole would mean
dividing a fraction.
From the corner of the room
she’s looking at me;
Madonna Dolorosa,
cheeks as pink as Fra Angelico’s
forbidden mistress.
Bonnie McClellan-Broussard 