As she steps from the hard porcelain tub,
Mad and wet and gripping my arm tightly,
Her own all bone, tissue, and red veins, with
Her damp hair twisted on top of her head
Like some ancient turban of thin white strings,
Behind her against the moist yellow walls
Soap she flung drips like an angry blue fog
Crawling its way down to some ruthless sea.
With skin like raw nerves, she swallows her moans
As I pat her dry more with a whisper
Of towel against her than a true touch,
Her back to me so she can still pretend
She is tall and strong and filled with grace, and
I am not the one seeing her naked.

Small smooth stones
collected from a swift creek 
at the edge of the cabin
piled in a corner
of the southernmost room
to ward off
any demons who’d
brave the cold
only trip me
climbing into our bed.
 
The quilt pulled
tight and tucked
like some unraveling
shroud barely
covering us
weighs thick
against the dwelling chill
and smells of sweat and pot
but holds you
rigid in your sleep.
 
I crawl under
its weight with you
in the witching hour
and shivering
against your chest
inhale faint hints of
patchouli from
your thick curling hair
as you wake to murmur
asking what I want.
 
Thigh against stomach
your warming fingers up my leg
mine tracing your spine
we take our skin
simple as any gift
we needn’t name
something temporary as
gin spilled
on the stones gone
before the long drive home.

Waking in a different state
in the witching hour
forty-odd years later
you pace hard wood floors
touching with cold fingers
small smooth stones
salvaged from some forgotten
source and lick the air
to taste a bite of gin and
tang of pot and patchouli.
 
The dream that woke
you restless and with
that handful of stones
scattered in the southern
corner of the room
dissipates like dark
at the edge of morning 
but breaking through
your waking fugue
you remember.