To the Artist's Page To our home page
To Lori Williams's previous piece
Perpetuity I once had a lover who whispered your breasts are white doves holding rubies in their lips. I laughed and said, birds don't have lips, babe. He was older, though not quite May-December. I was a summer storm; intense, urgent, with purpose, and he an autumn leaf, creeping along a curb or settled in a heap of russet and gold, serene in the beauty of ends. I taught him things like how to fit two in a tub of bubbles and that undershirts worn under shirts were old fashioned. My fear that he would leave first made me run. He tried to teach me that my eyes were bittersweet chocolate drops, my breath held the scent of a rose. The moment is what matters, so be lifted by the wind and alight where you should be. He said things like that as I tried to make his wardrobe hip and brushed off his whispers like those guys who dust for fingerprints, always hoping for something of importance underneath. Two decades of seasons have passed. I am now more leaf than storm, and he, the peace of a late winter snowfall, silent under the motionless embrace of the moon. My breasts are white doves holding rubies in their lips, I whisper to the wind. If only I had thanked him.
To the top of this page