Sandra Simonds

He had been human. I remember nothing. —Emily Dickinson

For many days, he called.

I told him not to; he kept calling.

He said he didn’t know

why I turned him on.

Me either?

I hid in a large field of aster because

it was May, a time of purples.

May, the optimal.

I answered that I live a bad life

and that I am mad.

Shoot me a picture of your lament.

How near the hue of kinesis,

these spring waters, I answered.

He wrapped himself tightly

in my prepositions, sent a verb

or two between my thighs.

Oh, it was the good kind of love,

unencumbered by love.

In the morning, I noticed

he’d left behind his blood-

red gloves. May, the sick days,

the many-rayed clouds.

Sandra Simonds is the author of eight books of poetry, most recently Triptychs. She teaches at Thomas University in Georgia and Bennington College in Vermont.
Originally published:
April 1, 2024


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