Ashley
By Chad Eschman
Ashley drinks Riesling, gracefully
sprawled in a sterile memory bank full
of what she forgot.
When sunlight awakens her, she yawns and stretches
like a monk, a perfectly disciplined anomaly.
Outside, an azure blast of morning screams
at her, but lightly she dances, thinking
of him: his clumsy shotgun, his spiny voice,
his plastic machines which, languidly,
he teaches to speak. Elephant is her
favorite, it can pirouette over bundles
of grief and buttery orchid gardens,
a clean, white, mechanical miracle.
He sits, drinks juniper, and laughs
at the transparent emotion,
at my slow, sad, piercing
caress which she avoids under pretense
of fatigue. She wants fuzzy nights, sharp
sunlight through windows,
and him.