waqt :: time

The lyrical act
of spelling your name
is a poem,
a poem.
How else
can I tell
how I woke
in the night
needing a quilt,
and found I was
tracing
the cuniform grave
of your name
in the soft
cotton folds,
how it felt,
the shapes
of the given
and surname
so different,
so yours,
and how sometimes
my hand
found your face?

© 4 May 2009, Heather Quinn, all rights reserved