We lived our little drama.
We kissed in a field of white.
And stars fell on Alabama last night. ~Mitchell Paris
Oh, those stars over Alabama.
How they fell in tender light
upon the fields of soft,
white buds, plucked
by your dark, scarred fingers
to show me the stubborn
seeds nestled there.
How the moon creases
the ochre sky tonight,
how I can taste red clay
in the cracks of my lips
takes me back to you,
to your dim room where
your mama’s quilt dressed
your sentimental bed,
and the smell of scotch
and weed wafted
like your fingers along my skin.
We slow-danced the blues,
and our lips pressed together
kept the secret between us:
How you could’ve been hanged for birth
and I could’ve been burned for love.
But we never spoke of this, only met
as the quad tower tolled the library’s closing—
you, gunning your daddy’s red Ford and me,
breathless and laughing, running to catch up.
You drove us to that field, gave me
something soft, and then hard-pressed
between your naked hands, I shuddered
white stars in a black sky.
Remember this, I whispered.
I’ll remember this, you said.
And you cradled my head in your neck,
chewed on a blade of grass while I inhaled
the woods of you, and we both just let it be,
let it all go without words.
© Ami Mattison
Flickr photo courtesy of Katie Harbath