Brenda Yates
Nights in Paradise
Whatever clouds may say,
tonight the huntress’s
crescent moon
is at the window
staring down
while shadows rustle
and a chemise
like delicate air
slips over my head,
luminous as the cold
lightning sprites
flashing above
thunderstorms
rumored to be
moving this way.
But for now,
the sound of the ocean
talking to the wind
comes right in,
low voices
out on the lanai where
a breeze
folds fabric
across my breast,
ruffles the hem at my thighs,
as intimate
in its way
as it is with the surf
whitening and lifting
into the air.
Then, no longer
kissing
my hair, a gust merely
brushes my cheek,
sighs and moves on,
up to the waiting
faces of cliffs that should
by now
know better
than to trust the wind.
But none of us do.
Soon, it'll be keening,
moaning in the distance
and though
wind doesn’t love me at all,
I’ll say I want you back.
Promises are easy now—
already, trees have
begun to tremble,
the whispers of hibiscus
have grown excited,
even placid stones
are murmuring
among themselves—
and no one will ask
where you’ve been.
