by Priya Bryant

I’m watching you as I pull
sand from my skin,
tiny studs who balk at their fate –
and I want you to move,
sift your hands through mine
as if we were easy that way.
the sea ticks out a drumbeat
and all my limbs stick in their sockets.
later we will climb the grimy walls
along with the ivy;
you will shrug your shoulders, tar-slow,
beneath a grinning yellow street lamp.
later I will whisper to you.
under the Spanish moon,
the things I would let you do to me.