Two Nocturnes

by Julie Gerrard

One

Rain and wet leaves
tattoo the roof.
Fire’s heat rises.
Her foot
finds the glowing knothole
on a stair tread.

Air ripples
over uncovered arms,
lifting small hairs
like grasses.

Talk lifts
off the pillow,
glinting
all the way to the ceiling.

Two

After you,
supper –

pasta,
pomegranate,
a little vodka

After you,
straighten the covers –
fold your scent
under the sheet.

Even the cat
loves your side of the bed.

Julie Gerrard lives in Seattle, travels when she can, and writes poetry at home and on the road. She recently won 3rd place for her entry in the 2006 Pacific NW Writers' Association literary contest.