by Nadine Hitchiner

I remember the rooibos
in your hair—drunken
on and milky. Shy sermon
of flowers,

how they preach their own
beauty, and yet forget
about it. I’ve called
this a blessing: to drive

my fingers down that lined
page at night, and recreate
each round top
with a tittle. Large night,

bright truck; the driver
(even I desert myself
here), a southpaw
smoker—my yellow

paint, my golden pair
of compasses, used up
on a hand, holding—
what? The disco

ball in the driver’s compartment—
your eyes like spilled salt.
Look over my shoulder.
Look over my shoulder—

the gown hangs heavy
over the door, we’re both
dreaming of things that stay.