Lyd Havens | Leonard Cohen's Feasts
Gala apple’s nectar dried up in his beard—I knew then I’d take him for a lover.
I tasted it all day after, & he could taste me. He wrote, come back soon lover.
These days I avoid the news the way I once avoided my own reflection. I know I’m
part of the problem. If my phone glows, it better be with the face of my lover.
I brought him lapis & honey from a trusted friend’s bees. We got naked in the kitchen,
laid in the hallway. Both his palms on my thighs. From my core, noises of a lover.
Why write love poetry in a burning world? Farris asks. My answer: I don’t know. Every other
reply feels hollow—which means they are all most likely right. Cliché has never stopped a lover.
He loves my burnt match perfume, my laugh as big as a living room, my ampersand tattoo
& my piccata recipe. This is all new to me: seeing & being seen by a lover.
He’d never heard the song that mentions fucking while war coverage plays across the room, so I
turned it on after dinner. We sat with the unknowability of terror, of millions of dead once-lovers.
I love the flicker-syllable of my name in his mouth, his gentleness, the way he makes everything
dreadful blur, if only for the night. Yes, this is why—the noticing itself is a lover.
I tasted it all day after, & he could taste me. He wrote, come back soon lover.
These days I avoid the news the way I once avoided my own reflection. I know I’m
part of the problem. If my phone glows, it better be with the face of my lover.
I brought him lapis & honey from a trusted friend’s bees. We got naked in the kitchen,
laid in the hallway. Both his palms on my thighs. From my core, noises of a lover.
Why write love poetry in a burning world? Farris asks. My answer: I don’t know. Every other
reply feels hollow—which means they are all most likely right. Cliché has never stopped a lover.
He loves my burnt match perfume, my laugh as big as a living room, my ampersand tattoo
& my piccata recipe. This is all new to me: seeing & being seen by a lover.
He’d never heard the song that mentions fucking while war coverage plays across the room, so I
turned it on after dinner. We sat with the unknowability of terror, of millions of dead once-lovers.
I love the flicker-syllable of my name in his mouth, his gentleness, the way he makes everything
dreadful blur, if only for the night. Yes, this is why—the noticing itself is a lover.
Lyd Havens is the author of Chokecherry (Game Over Books, 2021). Her poetry has previously been published in Ploughshares, Poetry Northwest, and New Delta Review, among others. Lyd lives in Boise, Idaho; more of her work can be found at www.lydhavens.com.