Rachel Jamison Webster grew up in Northeastern Ohio and now lives in Evanston, Illinois, with her partner Richard and their daughter. She teaches at Northwestern University and edits the online anthology of international poetry, www.universeofpoetry.org. More writing is available at http://racheljamisonwebster.blogspot.com.
Out with you on a mirror-slick evening in this place I’ve never seen before
a trill of fear and thrill strums up my legs as Nina Simone carves shapes out of silence
and our voices, ebbing, pool around objects, made distinct by their shapely divisions of light—
Merlot dark in jelly jars. A fern on the beer fridge peppered with dust.
The screen door swinging open with the randomness of memory. We could be
anywhere—Malága or Mobile—we could open the door to sand between toes, sea smells like semen,
your neck after sleep; this lit candle liquid in glass could be the moon, this music your hum
as you measure water for coffee in your kitchen, with me in your room, in a dream
of this café, where we sit across from one another, poles of a space in which the details gather weight.