Tuesday, April 3, 2012


photo: ralph murre

by Ellen Kort

I'd want her to come for me
smelling of cinnamon. . wearing
bright cotton. . purple maybe. . hot
pink. . a red bandanna in her hair

She'd bring good coffee. . papaya juice
bouquet of sea grass. . saltine crackers
and a lottery ticket. . We'd dip
our fingers into moist pouches

of lady slippers. . crouch down to see
how cabbages feel when wind bumps
against them in the garden
We'd walk through Martin's woods

find the old house. . its crumbling
foundation strung with honeysuckle
and in the front yard. . a surprise
jonquils. . turning the air yellow

glistening and ripe. . still blooming
for a gardener long gone. . We'd head
for the beach. . wearing strings of shells
around our left ankles. . laugh

at their ticking sounds. . the measured
beat that comes with dancing
on hard packed sand. . the applause
of ocean and gulls. . She'd play

ocarina songs to a moon almost full
and I'd sing off key. . We'd glide
and swoop. . become confetti of leaf fall
all wings. . floating on small whirlwinds

never once dreading the heart -
silenced drop. . And when it was time
she would not bathe me. . Instead
we'd scrub the porch. . pour left over

water on flowers. . stand a long time
in sun and silence. . then. . holding hands
we'd pose for pictures in the last light

~ Previously published in If Death Were A Woman
(Fox Print, Inc.)