Ella Joseph

Do you remember the time when
our fingertips touched, when
the musty smell of canvas stretched
between our crumpled bodies
wrinkled and sweaty from an afternoon nap
and the sun, suspended like copper
in a blue-white sky, when
we left our working week behind
tied like a package decorated with
ribbons of sidewalks pounded flat
by the tramping of black leather, when
the hot air pressed close like a pillow
but our souls flew free, when
a crow cawed from a branch nearby,
each shouted claim fading
to a heat-soaked lethargy, when
we tasted each other like rare wine
and knew that ours
was a separate universe?