Aubade
An old French form, a love-lorn
serenade. At dawn I bade you
farewell at the door, slipping
my tongue in your mouth
as if I could inscribe my name
on the tip of yours. Aubade.
How passionately we obeyed
our bodies’ biddings until
it was time for you to leave
my abode. If I could bring you back
by plying our trade, playing with words
the way you would, I would. If I could
feel your tongue stir beside mine
again, as we shared one last kiss
for the road—ah, babe—I’d hold on
longer, knowing the end I now
know. You loaded bags in the trunk,
boots, a box of books, pages
and pages of poems written
in a diner that serves breakfast
all day. Aubade. A ballad sung as we
part and depart for parts unknown.
I lie on the unmade bed we made
love on and read your poems aloud,
each word cold in my mouth
like a polished stone.
Outer Banks
Your mouth tastes of mint, cigarettes, and salt.
Here, on the edge of the continent, we walk
as waves drive us up the dunes and Cleo,
your blue heeler pup, herds us back together.
Your salt-and-pepper hair curls at the collar,
wild in the wind. You slicked it down in the mirror,
but nature has its own mind. I like the gray stubble
on your chin, your Cool Water and cannabis cologne.
At the tidemark, I search for shells, calico scallops
and clams without jagged edges or cracks,
while you hand me broken pieces worn smooth
by waves, lustrous fragments that look like jade,
a white petal with a purple stripe. Maybe I could bore
a hole in it and wear it on a cord around my neck, I say.
You hand me more and more and more until my pockets
overflow. Rubbing a smooth gray shard, I worry
that we don’t have enough in common, that you smoke
too much, that I don’t always understand or like your jokes,
that sometimes you hug me so hard my ribs hurt,
pinning me to the hotel bed as if I’ll float away
without the weight of your body to anchor me,
that you keep an unopened bottle of booze
in your house to prove to yourself that you won’t
drink it, that you got the DT’s when you quit,
that your heart was so enlarged you almost
died but you don’t think you’re an alcoholic,
that you say you love me after knowing me only
two weeks, that I’ll drown in these rough currents.
Cleo lassoes your feet, leaping to lick your hand as I lag
behind, still seeking that one perfect shell in the sand.
Beth Copeland is the author of three full-length poetry books: Blue Honey, recipient of the 2017 Dogfish Head Poetry Prize; Transcendental Telemarketer; and Traveling through Glass, recipient of the 1999 Bright Hill Press Poetry Book Award. Her poems have been published in literary magazines and anthologies and have been featured on international poetry websites. She has been profiled as poet of the week on the PBS NewsHour website. Beth lives in the Blue Ridge Mountains where she owns and runs Tiny Cabin, Big Ideas™, a retreat for poets, writers, and artists.