the night is full of steam and her hand is on the small of your back.
when she laughs, her eyes are vast, vast as the ocean, where you sit,
perched on the lip of the world. you have often contemplated her,
here, on the edge of everything, held her nude in the sunset, laid her
on stone and turned your hand inside until she cried out for mercy,
held her entire face in your hands and surrendered the rest of your life.
now, around your neck, and you can breathe and can’t, and she is riding you
with all the fury of the next goodbye behind her,
ten thousand horses in the desert unfettered and pounding.
blaze you say you want me and the tips at the end of it.
laugh, and the world dips onto the nipple I’m grazing,
one eye open against the sun. I could be younger and you
older and I could want hollywood and you could love
the village and that’s all right. I took you flying
on a beach under the full September moon, beneath the cliffs
after the surfers ebbed, and the wax wind startled your hair.
your hands stay shadows at my temples. I’m marking time
by how your clavicle eclipses the North Star.
–R. ERICA DOYLEr. erica doyle is a writer who lives in brooklyn, new york. her first book, proxy, is forthcoming from belladonna* books.