Bitter as black earth 
with its worms and pebbles
is this first swallow of coffee, the first
morning we wake in each other’s arms, 
having promised, the night before
that this will be it, God willing, 
one of us will bury the other.  
Bits of old leaves, chaff, dried grass 
still cling to my hair. 
Now they’re in the twisted sheets, 
in the salt of your stubble;
I’ve brought the yellow fields to bed with us.
You’ve set steaming cups on side tables
and folded yourself back beside me 
so I can bury my face in your velvet neck,
like a horse nuzzling its mate in a rainy pasture
snuffling and breathing through two long black nostrils, 
wordless tunnels,
empty flutes through which our music blows 
for just a short sweet while.

Bio: Alison Luterman