On A Cold Night
The wind cries through the eaves,
rain spits against the window
and flames dance on the hearth.
I worry there won't be enough rain,
that the only flame will be the times
I read your words like a mantra
while resting in bed only to find
scenes in my mind and sometimes
I see a seed, sometimes a rock
from a crumbling statue instead of
the rhythm of bodies rocking,
that funny sway from flinging back
the sheets.I like that you want to
fuck me. It's earthier than love
when the heat is too much. On a
cold night I promise you a river.
Alison Eastley lives in Tasmania, Australia her two sons and various animals. Previous work has been published in Double Dare Press, Mannequin Envy, Cordite, Wicked Alice, Poor Mojo and many other fine literary journals.