His Cherokee Mistress

sleeps with her face
between his thighs & whispers his legs still.

In her dreams drools, makes a ravine runs
past his naked ankles. At first morning light
they bathe each other in the stream
behind their house.
When her father dies,
the pie she bakes is moist with tears.
Her absence leaves splotches of sadness

from where they rest their heads to where
her father rests forever.
Her long dark hair
is a rolodex of grief his thin fingers caress.

Outside an oak. Rings within mark
drought one year, another a volley of storms
harsh enough to scoop roofs off homes,

the new & old cherished ways in which
the man shows the Cherokee mistress
his adoration’s maturation. She returns
weeps grief into her coffee, his hot grits.

What sadness he kisses from underneath
her shadowed knees hidden like secrets

He loves her. He never has to tell her—
she counts in firewood the years she’s knows.

***

I know it’s been a while, so I hope my return isn’t seen as intrusion. Be well y’all.