Nancy Murphy / Writer

I’m reading a book about a middle-
aged woman in heat.                          

                                                            She’s afraid

this won’t last, that she’ll lose
libido. I want to tell her desire
doesn’t go away, it just sleeps

late. It can be a little lazy
like a person who has already
done so much and feels like
the rest of her life is a kind of
sentence. Not a grammatically
correct one either. Just scraps
of words strung together
with no predicate, only
predictability. I’m not talking
about the book anymore.

                                                            I’m thinking about how many
                                                            more times I will wash towels,
                                                            roast a head of cauliflower, shop
                                                            for apples, milk, salmon.
                                                            None of this

belongs to desire.

When California desert heat slows
me down, its punishing weight,
there is nothing else to do
but feel into this body. Cherish
how many ways it can be
touched.                                             

                                                            Make a siesta

out of a catnap, ask your lover
to join you. (This part can be real
or imagined.) For an afternoon,
you can escape this prison
of poisoned thoughts,

                                                            float on your back,

in the cerulean blue waters
of your body’s birthright,
its promise still lighting the dark                    like a lantern.

 Gyroscope Review’s Fall Crone Power Issue, October 2024

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