Ode to a Lover
by Laura Sobbott Ross

We were travelers then, weren't we, love?
Two journeys locked into a path of flight-

you went north and I went south
but not before we laid the hollows

of our bodies beneath each other's skin
like snow angels in a bank

of something beautifully impermanent-
limbs, fan-shaped and flapping,

starry grains nudged into shadows
a shade paler than your eyes.

Remember how we almost loved,
how we almost came close enough

to hold each other still in a room
of motel furniture and beer,

while the highway twitched
like a moth at the window.

There is not much
that can be held like a memory-

not a breath, not a heartbeat,
not a name once a longing

at the marrow of the bone.
I remember how you unbuttoned me

that night, the loosed rustle of emerald green
sliding down my shoulders the way a tree

lets go of a leaf too soon, and
the sky is pieced together again,

while the humid air grows restless
for the taste of something red.

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