He had been human. I remember nothing. —Emily Dickinson
Aubade
Sandra SimondsFor 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.
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Sandra Simonds Originally published:
April 1, 2024
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