Linda B. Gamble
She slipped her leash today to sprawl
with him in woodsy seclusion,
giant gnarled limbs overhead,
trunk graffiti –other lovers’ archives-
makes her wish for a knife. A single leaf
flutters to the throw, vivid red
to faded threads.
Picnic lunch: ham, thick, salty on hearty
rye, his favorite, and dark cold beer
that fails to quench their thirst.
Other appetites rule. They read
each other like Braille, press
every contour, texture to memory.
She searches his eyes, measures his gaze
to hers, question silent on her lips.