Circadian Poems

A place to celebrate poetry, poets, and the creative spirit.

Wednesday, April 19, 2006


By Lea Drake

The first time
I came to visit you,
on the big silver bird,
I was nervous.
We spoke on the phone
every day
but had spent less than
eight hours
in person.

You picked me up at the airport
in your big silver car.

It reminded me of
the big silver bird.

We stopped on the way home --
your home --
for breakfast.
As I walked beside you
from the car to the diner,
Inhaling the scent
of your brown leather jacket,
I thought to myself
that I will know
this man's body
before I return to New York.

And I did.

As you knew mine.
As we learned each other's
and minds.

I missed you.
I wanted you.

You flew to see me
In a big silver bird.
I couldn't sleep the night before
From wanting you so much.
Would you want me?


But it was different.
A quieter passion
instead of
a fitful need.
Sometimes I like it.
Sometimes it made me afraid.
I still loved you.
Did you still feel the same way?

Or is the trophy once won
put on the back of the closet shelft
and fresh trophies sought?

I miss you.
I want you.

I prepare to fly to you again
on the big silver bird
and you'll pick me up
in your big silver car.

This time, I won't wonder
about your body
because I know
how to trace the patterns
to make you tingle.
I look forward to the melding,
the molding, the readjustment,
yet a little nervous
to trust in the love
that instinctively I know is there,
but intellectually I doubt.

Lea Drake’s work appeared in several small poetry journals. She is currently working on a book of poems.


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