chapter 2
Poem
HUFFINGTON 09.23.12
Post-Coital
Discourse
by
John Hennessy
With the pillow turned and crushed between them they constellate, make a quincunx, head in the sky, ankles and feet stuck in the sea. His breath still comes quickly and she laughs, twisting her nightgown across her waist, the minute’s ivy crown. His hands press his hips where hers just were. Ghost ships. He feels their wake. She braids half her hair. She rises and navigates the hall, leaving him alone as the tide ebbs, still moored to the bulkhead of the bed. The tap startles, splashing behind the wall. By her return he’s mid-sentence, his urge a squall touching down lightly, carrying almost all she’s said.