The Bard of Liminga — Ray Sharp

Hard to sleep last night after long bike ride, jotted this down:

Number 13

The bright morning light

shone through the thin mountain air

flooded the downstairs bedroom

with the warm glow

of pure young love.

Tracing the inside of your arm

slowly at the pace of morning

from wrist to elbow

bicep to armpit

the curve of your breast

ribs and soft belly and hip

across the tops of your thighs

a pleasure you could not resist.

After

ravenous for the Number 13

breakfast at the Soda Springs Café

eggs on potatoes

with cheese and green onions

and a splash of salsa

and hot coffee for me.

We don’t make love any more.

I rarely eat breakfast.

Midwest mornings are dull and damp.

The torch you carried for me

has gone cold but now I see

it wasn’t a light in the dark

because we glowed

in perpetual sun.

Now I am the dark.

I need your torch to lead me back

but I have sucked all the air

out of our world

and choked the flame.

I am black like an oil slick

spreading over the sparkling sea

coating your feathers with tar.

Now I depend on coffee

but the taste is bitter

the effect muted

dulled by

a chronic fatigue of the soul.

I miss holding your warm body

I miss lingering over breakfast together

but more like nostalgia for a favorite book

not like body hunger.

And of course

the light

I miss the light.