In mid conversation, I realize you have light-brown eyes that never turn away. Like a great sea captain at the helm of an ancient ship, your gaze is both intent and intense. The bow of your lip is disarming. After twenty years, for the first time, I want you to kiss me slowly so that I can savor every cell, so like a shawl, I can drape my arms around your neck, so I can feel the stubble on your chin, so I can breathe the woody fragrance on your skin, so all the blind years will fade like an apparition in the sun, so all there ever was or ever will be is that kiss.
Ellen June Wright‘s poetry has most recently been published in River Mouth Review, Santa Fe Writers Project, New York Quarterly, The Elevation Review, The Caribbean Writer and, is forthcoming in, Obsidian: Literature & Arts in the African Diaspora. Her work was selected as The Missouri Review’s Poem of the Week for their website. She was a finalist in the Gulf Stream 2020 summer poetry contest and is a founding member of Poets of Color virtual poetry workshop in New Jersey. She studies writing at the Hudson Valley Writers Center in Sleepy Hollow, New York.