Lisa Russ Spaar

This is Not a Bill


The glass waist of this whist-day
is prised in a vise of oaks, bloodied

glimpse of paradise lost to us,
thank God, else we’d be forced

to destroy it.  And your flesh?
I think of it minutely in your absence,

snow-fleck of skin in your lashes,
groin-timbre, calf, lips,

your hips’ silver tongue –
the air swollen with pollen,

hormonal detonations, a memory
of my body burning in your hands.  

These adrenal, island garlands of blossom –
bird-loom – airplane groan & train blow

-ing the ravine:  never allow
me to be cured of this whet & its country –