Melanie McCabe

GOOD INTENTIONS

Here is nectar on a dream tongue I will never use
to shape a word: this dark berry balanced
on the tip that waits between night and day
is the only taste of you I will ever have.

I conjure both the tart and the sweet
from the unscrawled white of my pillow;
I know enough to let the morning drone past
as though it belongs to someone I do not know.

Last evening I touched my fingers to your forearm,
and no one was the wiser—not even you.
I told myself a story and let that story uncoil itself
in a garden heady with uneaten fruit.

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