poetry 2017 / 027

A Lump in the Throat

The scent of frankincense

on the early evening air.

Windows are open. The sound of traffic

in the distance lost in the closer drone

of lavender bees and wood pigeons.

You body dusted with sweat, drying in the heat

and leaving tiny circles of salt.

Albinoni on the record player

and a lazy trail of smoke

from the cigarette between your lips.

Still early, but the sun sends shadows

racing across the lawn,

longer and longer until they are taken by the gloaming

and the distant streetlight flickers on.

You rise, and a line of ash rolls from your clavicle

as you speak:

“I have to go home.”

“Home is where the love is,” I reply

and you laugh: “Just not here.”