Equinoctial
     
    
   
   
    
     
      When
      we
      make
      love
      you
      follow
      a
      road
      across
     
     
      my
      breast
      and
      I
      remember
     
     
      the
      new
      jaggedly
      dark
      path
     
    
   
   
    
     
      clear-cutting
      my
      mother’s
      right
      breast.
      I
     
     
      want
      to
      turn
      back
      more
      than
      anything
      I’ve
      wanted
      before
     
     
      this
      moment.
      Too
      many
      candles
      illuminate
     
    
   
   
    
     
      windy
      midnight
      and
      I
      translate
     
     
      time
      where
      she
      is,
      the
      way
      we
      measure
     
     
      dogs’
      years
      as
      seven
      times
      greater
      than
      our
      own
      —
     
    
   
   
    
     
      every
      minute
      for
      her
      must
      become
      seven,
      she
      must
      stretch
     
     
      day
      and
      night
      as
      much
      as
      she
      can
      now.
      I
      can
      only
      imagine
     
     
      the
      burgundy
      sweater
      with
      stripes
      running
      level
     
    
   
   
    
     
      left
      to
      right,
      her
      favourite
      pullover
     
     
      I
      bought
      for
      Christmas
      five
      years
      ago
      when
     
     
      breast
      cancer
      was
      the
      sun’s
      declination
     
    
   
   
    
     
      we
      didn’t
      give
      a
      second
      glance
      to
      —
      these
      days
     
     
      the
      sweater’s
      tone-on-tone
      chenille
      stripes
      collapse
     
     
      diagonally
      across
      her
      cut-open
      chest.
     
    
   
   
    
     
      The
      heart’s
      still
      there,
      still
      whole,
      I
     
     
      assure
      terrestrial
      darkness
      as
      you
      kiss
      where
     
     
      mine
      should
      respond
      tonight
      —
     
    
   
   
    
     
      her
      heart
      hiding
      safe
      from
      the
      knife,
      the
      bloom
      that
      was
     
     
      cancering
      through
      her
      body,
      a
      body
      like
      mine
     
     
      during
      the
      equinox
      when
      we
      could
      be
      anywhere,
      days
      and
      nights
     
    
   
   
    
     
      equal,
      and
      anything
      after
      a
      bottle
      of
      wine,
      but
      I’m
     
     
      the
      house
      I
      grew
      up
      in
     
     
      that
      can’t
      help
     
    
   
   
    
     
      watching
      my
      mother
      bathe.
      Scars
     
     
      remind
      us
      keep
      going,
      don’t
      stop
      until,
     
     
      like
      the
      lake
      just
      outside,
      each
      latitudinal
      step
      is
      sand
     
    
   
   
    
     
      with
      no
      rocks
      cutting.
      I
      wish
     
     
      I
      could
      love
      you
      —
      I
      wish
     
     
      she
      wore
      the
      burgundy
      sweater
      last
      week
      or
      today
     
    
   
   
    
     
      for
      no
      reason
      and
      not
      because
      she’s
      afraid
     
     
      of
      stripes.
      I
      wish
      language
      were
      simpler
      and
      even
      more
     
     
      I
      wish
      the
      sweater
      lines
      went
      straight
     
    
   
   
    
     
      across
      her
      chest
      the
      way
      they
      always
      did
     
     
      rather
      than,
      on
      her
      right
      side,
      down
     
     
      towards
      the
      earth.
      I
      want
     
    
   
   
    
     
      her
      to
      be
      the
      sun’s
      crossing
      and
      you
      and
      I
      to
      be
      only
     
    

    
     
      vernal
      seconds
      from
      where
      life
      is
      as
      we’ve
      known
      it
     
    

    
     
      and
      better
      —
      water,
      a
      temperate
      climate,
      and
      enough
     
    

    
     
      food
      for
      forever,
      but
      more
      than
      anything,
      I
      really
      want
      forever
     
     
      as
      the
      length
      of
      lovemaking’s
      celestial
      equator
      and
      how
      long
     
    
   
   
    
     
      my
      mother
      is
      wearing
      the
      sweater
      she
      chooses.
     
    
   
   
    
     
      —Lesley-Anne
      Bourne
     
    
   
   
    
     
      f