The other half
is gone.
The aftermath
is quiet,
and the sheets
are still red.
With sunrise,
I disappear
under cover.
Alone,
in the crimson
morning,
I'm guessing
that every mosquito,
and every tree limb,
and every single
thunder crack back
has lived through
such a feeling.
If I could,
I'd ask the ant,
or maybe
the cheetah.
Here and now,
out there,
someone new
is blindsided
by a naked,
Iceland afternoon,
next day wishing
on smooth skin
or wrinkles.
Soundless.
Yes, the sheets
are still red.
Discreet,
in the crimson
morning
-- C.A. MacConnell
