Dreadnought. by Lena Drake

He comes from the west,
sun spilling from his skin,
collecting in small pools
on my sheets, dirty with
seasons of exchange.

Our throats dangle off
the edge. I can’t tell
his hair from mine,
gold like the stems
of peonies plucked
from fertile ground.
How they hope for
a new beginning.

His eyes fasten
me with their heat;
I bend towards him
with ease. It feels
good, I think,
to be picked.

He talks of afternoons
like this one,
his eyes hanging
low. He sheds his feelings
like they don’t belong
to him. Do you
remember me as I am?
Or as you wanted
me to be?

I slide my
fingers across his face
like my mother
did when it rained
and I feared
our house would flood
with water or with rage.
His body could be
anyone’s, even mine
if I were a ship. Strong
like my mother,
like a dreadnought.

How quickly that
which was close to us
becomes foreign and
soon forgotten. How
quickly we shy
away from the sun.

Lena Drake is an actress and writer with a BFA: Theater from the University of Michigan. She studied Scriptwriting at Oxford University before moving to Los Angeles to pursue her career in TV and film. Lena’s poetry can be found on www.empressindignant.com and you can learn more about her upcoming film and TV projects on Instagram and Twitter @Lena_Drake.