By James King

When next I see you, your hair
will be silver skies over the Seine,
much as they were when we lay
in each other’s arms, knowing
that before the clouds clear
one of us would be gone.

When next I see you, your eyes
will be the last blinding rays reaching
out before sinking into the blood-red
horizon. Remember when you dared me
to take you—here and now, you said—
not far off the beaten path? I hesitated.
Your laugh was a thunderclap, signaling
how far we were from shelter.

When next I see you, I fear I may hesitate
again. What could be the point of pulling
close slack breasts to sunken chest,
shriveled lips to wrinkled cheeks,
thighs that have long forgotten heat?

Then again, perhaps we will embrace after all,
trace each other’s blue veiny hands, and listen
to the gentle lapping of loss against the quay
when next I see you.

About the Author

James King’s poetry has appeared in The Dillyduon Review, The Thieving Magpie, OpenDoor Poetry Magazine, Oddville Press, Big City Lit, The Dead Mule School of Southern Literature, Crowstep Poetry Journal, and other journals and anthologies. He is also the author of the award-winning novel, Bill Warrington’s Last Chance. James is a graduate of the University of Notre Dame and has an MA in writing from Manhattanville College. He lives in Wilton, Connecticut.