Kay Sloan

A Second Reel

There will be moments:
late light slant­i­ng through wood­en blinds
mak­ing our naked bod­ies gold­en again,
exhaust­ed on a rum­pled bed.
In the click of mem­o­ry’s shut­ter
the moon ris­es like a scythe,
a sliv­er of orange in late October,
as if, opti­mistic as new love,
it could har­vest the gath­er­ing thun­der­clouds.
There is no white pick­et fence in our future.
In that direc­tion, we agreed, lies dan­ger:
the loss of the crease between friend­ship and lust,
the fold between aban­don and inti­ma­cy,
that uncer­tain seam that sure­ly must be love.
But in some ves­sel or artery you pump away,
a lunatic lover seek­ing
either access or escape in my blood,
depend­ing on the whim of the heart.
I will be in your cel­lu­loid mem­o­ry
(edit­ed to your lat­est fan­ta­sy),
if you will be a char­ac­ter in my nov­el,
promis­ing to wear your black vest
and fad­ed jeans,
your breath stained with cheap bur­gundy,
will­ing to take on anoth­er life between
the pages of a secret man­u­script,
indeli­ble this time.

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