At the coffee shop you love, white mugs heavy on the table between us, young baristas— spiky haired and impatient— cannot imagine how two people so old to them can feel so wanton, coffee growing cold between us, middle-aged bodies growing hot under the other's gaze. Even now, apart, you send me songs so I may listen to love from the golden throat of a saxophone, piano keys playing jazz across my soft belly. How is it the tide of terror has quit rising in me, or rises and recedes as tides do, bringing sea glass worked smooth and lovely by the sheer fact of time, bringing trash— plastic mesh and old sneakers— useless things now we might bag up and remove, bringing a lapping tongue of water up over our toes as we hold hands and walk along its edge— carefully, gleefully, both. Copyright © 2017 Sarah Browning. Used with permission of the author. |
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