by Kim Ports Parsons -
Hoarfrost blooms at my temples,
hooks around my ears. A cold wind’s
knocking. My body’s forgetting
the steamy hydraulics of those nights,
the lick of eyeliner, the shimmy
and the sweat, the torrent from the amps,
the sassy flip of curls on my shoulders,
how a hungry mouth surfaced near mine,
how I could slide into a drowning kiss.
This December night, I’m warming myself
at the fire you’ve built. I’m watching
embers glow like remembered sighs.
Husband of mine, let’s turn a slow shuffle
about the flickering room. Let’s mingle
our old pajamas and worn out scuffs.
Let’s stoke the laughter at ourselves, but
tenderly. Let my fingers linger for a while
in the silky sparks of your silver-threaded hair.
After thirty years as a teacher and librarian, Kim Ports Parsons now lives next door to Shenandoah National Park in Virginia with her husband Doug, hound dog Sadie, and cat Miss Daisy Cooper. She tends garden, hikes, and listens for poems. Her work has appeared in many journals, such as Cider Press Review and The Blue Nib. She volunteers for Cultivating Voices LIVE Poetry.