Poem by Monica Raymond & Art by Lydia Crouse

Cleft

In the absence of a love we become
abstract, distract, distrait.  Unmade
            and useless as a bed.
I liked the bedclothes in a hovel or nest
close dressed around me, rippled as the abode
            of any mammal. Your visible
parts were rough and your invisible silky, un-
touched. Enough. Untouched enough. You gave
            me crystal

earrings, watery globes with tweak of rose, worlds
            blessed
with junket sunsets. I have one long and
            twisted silver thing
you said was etching of a marsh, the grasses
            and the wild
geese flying. V-ed. Overhead. It is victory, peace
            and where
I would sometimes touch you, forked like a ginseng root
            that split in earth means longevity

only better and wetter and more to be
            petted and stirred
and you held me more fiercely.