After Summer Fell Apart

By Yusef Komunyakaa b. 1947 Yusef Komunyakaa

I can’t touch you.

His face always returns;

we exchange long looks

in each bad dream

& what I see, my God.

Honey, sweetheart,

I hold you against me

but nothing works.

Two boats moored,

rocking between nowhere

& nowhere.

A bone inside me whispers

maybe tonight,

but I keep thinking

about the two men wrestling nude

in Lawrence’s Women in Love.

I can’t get past

reels of breath unwinding.

He has you. Now

he doesn’t. He has you

again. Now he doesn’t.

You’re at the edge of azaleas

shaken loose by a word.

I see your rose-colored

skirt unfurl.

He has a knife

to your throat,

night birds come back

to their branches.

A hard wind raps at the door,

the new year prowling

in a black overcoat.

It’s been six months

since we made love.

Tonight I look at you

hugging the pillow,

half smiling in your sleep.

I want to shake you & ask

who. Again I touch myself,

unashamed, until

his face comes into focus.

He’s stolen something

from me & I don’t know

if it has a name or not—

like counting your ribs

with one foolish hand

& mine with the other.

Source: Pleasure Dome: New and Collected Poems (Wesleyan University Press, 2001)

Biography

In his poetry, Yusef Komunyakaa weaves together the elements of his own life in short lines of vernacular to create complex images of life in his native Louisiana and the jungles of Vietnam. From his humble beginnings as the son of a carpenter, Komunyakaa has traveled far to become a scholar, professor, and prize-winning poet. In 1994, he claimed the Pulitzer Prize and the $50,000 Kingsley Tufts Poetry Award for his Neon . . .

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