Long After Arrival
Without the humidity summer feels like a lie,
it makes me uneasy:
a twitch, a crease in my lapel,
some dirty finger pulling back the sheets.
My sleep hours spent rolling roads, crazy
for smog filtered oxygen, their particulates,
this traffic light’s no left turn.
Crazy for the moments of this new thing,
to give it the fruit and greens I gather, my pack holds water—
I can make it; I can carry this though it’s yet to take shape,
once you know her
you never find her.
There’s little left,
make room along the lower back, squeeze
this dream, these three hours couple drinks talking,
squeeze her between the spine.
Let her lift, push with her hands against my skin,
fingernails angled to points, her words
like constant prayer, a flutter
of nearby wings, a damp breeze
before Sunday brunch.
The honesty of young lovers;
their capacity for blood,
Please let this be ascension.
Let the low angle of my eye-lid, and
the half patter in my chest be real, be
the water lapping the shore, the return to stasis;
BIO: Born in the Northeast. Cultivated in the Southeast. Maturing in the West, Douglas Sullivan holds a bachelor’s degree in English. He’s been writing professionally for eight years, unless professionally is defined by dollars earned from the craft. He’s held many jobs, from running a boutique coffee shop to editing fitness videos, and along the way his writing has amassed local prizes as Winners of the Barbara A. Pilon Poetry Contest and the Robert Walker Memorial fiction award. He's a 2010 finalist in Sundance Screenwriter's Lab, and recently had fiction published online in A Twist of Noir. Douglas likes clean prose with strong coffee. He lives in a California Valley with increasing adoration, though if he has to choose a coast, he has to choose the East.