Ann Pibel - Rosaries
The bracelet rests against my pulse--
black strands threaded into colored floss.
I pray over this ribbon of hair, conjure
you as the bus I ride rolls roughly
through each intersection, but you don't rise for a stop
or step through the doorway.
A waiter sleeps across from me,
white shirt unbuttoned,
showing the brown rose of his nipple,
the outline of a heart, a skull, a name.
Esperé la luz, reads the sign above the exit.
I get off at West Adams and Figueroa,
enter the hushed air of St. Vincent de Paul's,
its reredos dim, alter vacant-- and sit for an hour,
counting the petals on a leftover flower.
Outside, the day's heat exhales from the sidewalk.
A lonely dog follows me halfway home.
You are living at the edge
of another continent,
where candle smoke hazes a new day.
Your kisses at her throat
bloom just like a necklace of stars.