Suzanne Bronson Poems

I We Do Not Tell, We Do Not Gather

I will know the ghosts
...

Draped beyond the blossoms,
a gracious breath away -
your mouth was made
to fit with mine,
...

There is a song for you
lying in my bed;
one that waits
to be written.
...

Why is it you
whose body calls to mine?

Behind your eyes
...

I wish I could be that
subtle play of light
in your wineglass -
the breeze around the edge,
...

It was lent to me
from the jaguar’s eyes
met in a turning glance;
and in her walk – her shoulders –
...

If I could find you
past that spoilt harvest
of greener grass;
would you
...

For the Army of those
who dare to dream
and for the dreams made real -
the warriors of plans and tools.
...

There is a sadness – not so secret –
that lies between us in bed;
of another’s eyes that looked into mine,
of another’s arms around me.
...

The illusion of work and wages –
a thing that is had
or needs to be,
a thing between the fear
...