Straps sliding down my slender arms
unveil collarbones like kindling,
revealing me like the bare neckline of a Duchess.
I touch my hair, hard and oily like wax
and then put the pen to paper,
thinking of Peter, and the incomplete circles
he drew for wings on his Sunday school angels.
I smirk at the uncanny likeness between
Peter and these celestials,
bright beacons, arriving unpredictably,
Couriers with notes of love and gentleness,
just for my eyes.
My thoughts wander from the page to the window,
remembering the embers of hope that burned
when Peter was in my belly,
and how he emerged like a candlewick,
searing a hole in me that never healed,
and was never meant to.
Today the sidewalks bleed rain,
and hooded people pass in droves,
their dark shadows sending me searching.
Looking for light.
Looking for you, Peter.