by Alyssa Nickerson
Henry, I had only wished for your
body made mine in twilight, some
heat beside me. The scattered factors
crammed in your theses were made
moot by moon and Southern midnight.
In the youngest moments of a year, performed
twice, your thin limbs (scraggly as mountain pine)
caught mine; and, draped over wrought balustrade,
I could see Venus through your kiss. And if, boy,
I saw your lines draped across Carolina
skies, I might subscribe to novel alphabets
of bliss. But even so, you are not missed.