When the air finally sat still,
you poured warm chocolate across my back,
feasted until your tongue resembled tornado dust.

I said I wanted you to hold me.
You rushed inside me instead.

At dawn, as you buttoned your shirt,
leaned over to kiss me,
my body still shaken from the upheaval
and my feet slipping beneath me,
I realized you would always
be my wild place, not my stable ground.

Pris Campbell
©2002


Published in Peshekee River Poetry Journal, Fall 2003


Art: Orphelia by Waterhouse

Music: On My Way Home by Enya

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