when after she guides my fingers

by Stacey Waite

out from the red memory of her body, 

she turns away toward the window

screen holding up the shadows

of vines.  it’s even possible she’s

conjuring up an old ship harbor

on the coast of maine or whispering

to herself of the stone steps down

to the cellar.  we’ve ended up here before, 

no curtains to soften the quickness

of morning sun, no frame for the bed.

if we need it badly enough, i suppose. 

if we need.  if we pull up 

the nails from the attic floor.