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Anthony Robinson
reads
For Julia
in Real Audio format.
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It comes to me later, the stab, the distance
that slices through the gut, the memory:
two figures on a lonely road, last chance,
a flask of wine unfinished, or the tree
outside the window in our tiny loft.
I’d see: first your closed eyes, next your white neck,
and then your whole weight shuddering, the soft
collapse of belly, thigh and breast, the lack
of words, the silence in the room, the bed
still damp and shaking, the sweat on your round
stomach, the brown of your nipple, your head
inclined toward the window, the quiet sound
of your voice much later on the phone, a year?
Two years? Three? Has it been that long? Oh dear.
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