Taking Our Time


The rain doesn’t run here, only puddles,
spreads lazily, like how hair pools
on a pillow when a woman naps,

skin cooling where exposed: fingers, and nose,
what I use to understand Ohio,
its damp dirt stamped flat over 200 miles.

Brewing tea takes longer here. The kettle
hums instead of sings. The steam is barely
there, snuffed out by peppermint-cold air

like breath in the unheated garage, but not
our breaths in our ears under the down, not
your slow tracing of my unfolding warmth, only

condensation, lather of not yet, us
languishing between two far-off mountain
peaks for hours, sweat, sex, rain, we linger, thaw.

Stacia M. Fleegal