Farm Fresh Poem by Chelsea Locke

and only slightly frozen
you had rain dripping from your eyelashes
and every word you said ended in a promise
even I knew you couldn't keep.
But I remember.
I remember when evening fell on our shoulders
like ice in a scotch glass
and the nicotine stains on your fingers looked like bruises
from trying to hold time too tightly. My hands are bruised.
My shoulders. My back. My thighs. All
blotched with purple-yellow petals from a field
filled with the growing shadow of the mountain where
you stood,
shadows stretching from beneath your toes in my direction.
When you reached your hand towards mine I knew I would fall into that darkness.
And I'm not sure I cared.