Oestrus

painting by john shannon

Oestrus

In a thatch of sleeping thistles,

standing ankle deep in clover

near the swollen swirl of the stream,

I glanced over at your cabin,

perched there on stilts

with its high porch,

like a tall brown heron

that saluted the mossy sun setting

behind the thick slippery limbs

of the mother of maples.

In the half light I could see

a silver glint off the chromatic curves

of your proud metal chimney,

towering like a stack on a sturdy ship,

blemished by that trickle of creosote

that dripped down teasingly into

the black flaming barrel

of your homemade wood stove.

Standing there quietly in the almost dark

I swear I could smell your sweetness,

granting majesty to the moment

as I marveled at how compatible

we seemed that summer,

side by side in the naked scotch broom.

What a joyous and rare August’s eve

we had shared the night before,

tumbling slow on the heels of humidity,

warm and sticky--with you nearly

invisible in the gathering ink

as I held your voluptuousness tightly,

struggling to see one of your slender fingers

pointing to a Greek goddess

in a clear constellation that seemed

to shine just for us.

In the darkness, pressing your breasts

against my chest, my thoughts reeled

like flirtatious fireworks, absolutely

certain that finally my wandering had ended,

that I no longer needed to spread

loneliness around my shoulders

like a prayer shawl, because

I was not lost, no,

I had found refuge, sanctuary, there

in that wet meadow on the edge

of the national forest, and 

I had found something else

within my self, 

first a hidden door,

then a hidden room 

somewhere in a secret fold of my soul,

where before nothing had ever penetrated,

no phantom footprint,

no phantom breath. 

Glenn Buttkus

September 2012

Posted over on dVerse Poets MTB

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