Terry Godbey


Let the night enter you,
its cool vapors,
scarf of muted voices,
blues from a radio
through the open window.

Let the night fill you,
inhale it like the cigarettes you stole
when you were young
and unafraid,
for nothing is sadder
than your dim eyes,
your lavender dress floating to the floor.

Let the night consume you,
the pale moon
like the only man you will ever love,
dancing alone
every midnight,
the stars smoothing
their white skirts, waiting.
You hold your breath and wish:
Choose me.

Old Story

You remember her silk dress
sliding like water
from her shoulders,
her long hair
a hundred paintbrushes
sweeping your arms,
her eyes flecked as wine corks,
looking right through you.

You needed to hold back
some small part,
refused to say the word
though it lit on your tongue
like a gypsy moth.

Stick by stick
you tore down your house,
wanting only
the whitewashed cottage
near the shore,
periwinkle plaiting the gate
where she waits,
her kisses
sprinkled with salt.

It is an old story, wanting
what you cannot have
–thrill of the blade, shiny scar,
streaked window
left open in the rain,
and hope,
a pale blue bridge to cross
before you drop
into the soft net of sleep.