Invitation
Melanie McCabe

Stalk me, then,
through August nights
that bloom too hot
with myrtle and roses, just as
you did when we were young.
 
Lure me onto your Yamaha,
my hair twining from the helmet
like wild vines, my biceps
buzzing against your ribs
as we lean into the curves.
 
Once more we’ll straddle,
thighs to hips, down
dark roads to anywhere
but where we’ve been--
weave in and out of pockets of air,
 
from hollows heady with moss
and loam, to blacktop
shimmering in a dream of noon.
And I will be twenty
and you twenty-one
 
and one more time we will fly,
breasts to back into blackness,
never rounding that far crest,
never taking that last curve
that leads home.

 

                                                             ~ ~ ~
​                                                                                                                JULY 2026