3 a.m.
By Silke Feltz

The desert heat and the moon and the sleep,
those three know how I toss and even my little toe
wishes you were here right now. You’re awake, too,
of course you are, as I curl into my restless duvet and
picture how you press against me, forming a perfect
question mark. We can’t meet in our weekend park, so
we choose to believe we’re tired with eyes open wide.

Only the desert heat and the moon and the sleep
listen to my heartbeat where melancholic cicadas sing
while you lay on your back in foreign woods and you
imagine my smaller body, a gift you refuse to unwrap
slowly. You breathe deeply and wonder how my vegan
skin smells and why these vulnerable powder-pink pastels
keep on twirling into your mula bandha, into your mind.

When the desert heat and the moon and the sleep smile
because our last “Till soon” feels like a dramatic goodbye;
when carefree fireflies dance their silent disco only for
my delight and your endless summer days end early so night
breaks ripples into your routine— then this is the exact moment
when a powerful desire between you and me seduces us to dream
ourselves under the same sheet, where we feel less incomplete.

 

Silke Feltz from U.S is an immigrant from Germany who teaches writing at the University of Oklahoma. Her poetry appeared in Peeking Cat Poetry, Drunk Monkeys, MockingHeart Review, Literary Veganism, and Writers: Craft & Context. When Silke doesn't write or read poetry, she directs her humanitarian knitting charity, StreetKnits, and volunteers for Poetic Justice, a nonprofit that facilitates poetry workshops in women's prisons in Oklahoma.