Minnesota 2011

by Amy Turn Sharp


tying cherry stems in knots

thinking about the Mississippi river

writing poems about the corner of your mouth

when I am not with you I cannot sleep down deep

I float on the top of tight white sheets

I fly around the room like paper moths looking for white bright light

looking for your heat

your strong back

a harbor

 

simple math eludes me

me minus you

and I know not the sum

I write equations on my skin

I trace your name on my stomach over and over like a tiny tickle

my hand shakes

I write the proof

 

watching old men in the lobby of an old hotel shuffle towards the women

the old girls in perfect hairstyles

the men raise their wooden cans like arms and wave at the women

the women have light attached to them

the women smile

they all walk like snails to the valet

 

people stay together until they die

my heart pulses

 

I look out large windows

and imagine the old people driving a large car along the river

they laugh and hold hands

they will sleep like angels pressed together tonight

they help each other from the bed

 

tying cherry stems in knots

thinking about the Mississippi river

writing poems about the corner of your mouth