Unsayable, a scree of consonants
piled up at the base, he cannot
pronounce her name. Love, dear,
darling, forever come simply and
easily as sugar in coffee,
the way she fixes it for him
in the morning while he showers,
rinsing off the night’s dreams,
that dark oily scent clinging
to the steam, making his mouth
water like it does when he wants
to kiss her unglossed lips
the way they are in the morning
when she wakes up, rosy
and puffy with sleep, warm
as a winter fire after a midnight walk
on new snow, when the world
glows bright as a full moon,
and the drifts shimmer, casually
heaped against the fences,
already pitted, collapsing
like those consonants at the end
of her name, which he cannot,
could never, pronounce.
(c) 2017, by Hannah Six
Image: Skeeze via Pixabay
