When You Leave

Today it is July and a heatstroke cornered makes 
             progress slow and sleepy in a parking lot,  
             
my heart goes with eastbound cars
             when you leave. I want to love you 

with your mind turned off, in your skin 
                you say is white—
                I say Cherokee:
because I know your toes, 
               
I know your stillness

like the trees, your laughter leveling forests,
like the kissing wind against my knees.

Lay down your winter coat, pick up your skin, 
the faucet running, children will not hear you coming.
Done with small feasts and narrow steps—
             tonight your night. 
Leave your husbands without regret—
             leave on the light.