The Echo of What Remains Collected Poems of Wanda Lea Brayton
My non-exact words were
"there aren't enough archipelagos in poetry",
so he sculpted a few more
along the pale, pulsing map of my skin,
strewn somewhat contrary to north and south,
a warm convex beneath our hands,
particularly partial to the oddly resonant sounds
carved and echoed in our ears by rising, crashing waves.
We succumbed to shifting sands,
falling in splendorous disguise
and opened a bottle to share, nonchalant
about our intoxication for each other's fragrance.
He needed no further encouragement -
it was already implicit in my dilated eyes.
He leaned forward, brushing the tide
of hair from my shoulders,
then sought my mouth with his own -
the day was fiery and reckless,
braided and branded into the sky by laughter.