by Anna Evans

Now, as approaching sunset chars
the paper sky,
bone-chilled as any mortal woman,
more lonely, I
invoke your body, eyes and mouth
then question why
we never kissed.

There are few pleasures that are pure
but kissing’s one—
a bee alighting on a pink—
tryst in the sun,
unlike the twisting, bare embrace
that’s damply done
in dark’s tight fist.

I would have pressed my lips to yours
with modest fire,
to learn your touch and not your body—
my desire.
We burn these thoughts to ashy dust
only to die here.
Regretting this.

© 2006 by Anna Evans


About the Author

Anna Evans is a British citizen but permanent resident of NJ, where she is raising two daughters. She has had over 100 poems published in journals including The Formalist, The Evansville Review, Measure and e-zines such as Verse Libre Quarterly. She has been nominated twice for a Pushcart Prize and was a finalist in the 2005 Howard Nemerov sonnet award. She is editor of the formal poetry e-zine The Barefoot Muse and is currently enrolled in the Bennington College MFA Program. Her first chapbook Swimming was published in March 2006 by Powerscore Press.


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