Meuble

A Poem

By Mary McColley


It is drunk and I am hot out,
I can feel my skin laid against the bedspread
and light refracted twice before it ever

entered my room, my hair is dark
across my lips, tendril tentacle coil, rivet,
swirl, and my legs kick each other in nervous

timpani, they shake without thinking!
the red muscles know to be afraid and I lay
a dash of a girl, commas curling ribs,

I lay just a flower-stem, pinched, broken at the
home and green, left
on washed-out rock at the shore of the evening,

light is alabaster and precious,
soon I will not be able to afford it.