She smelled of leather, and sex. She was her own earth, her scent hovering around her head, like the morning before a thunderstorm. It made me take bigger breaths; I felt almost suffocated by it. It was her commander in action; her colonel. It preceded her presence: that scent that reached every centimeter of my skin. She tasted of honey, and figs like the ancient Greeks, their philosopher husbands. Her taste was not sweet; it changed with every kiss, and lick. Her taste was her soldiers on the front lines; changing, and replaceable. Her touch was like the skin of bananas; smooth and cool, like the rocks on the eroding river. It was like her queen who could fuck you, or kill you. Her touch made me shiver, and say yes.
I wish I could be productive like a pomegranate, but the truth is that I cannot remove from my mind, the feeling of your nails scratching out highways on my back. I wish I could write a poem that would spill tears from your eyes, But the truth is, I have a hard enough time just trying to look into them. I wish I could curl up with your mind like a book, on a rainy Thursday morning, But the truth is, I am terrified of what I might find, and what I might not. I wish I could have you like the summer does, wrapping her words around your heart But the truth is, you will think I want the world from your palm to mine. The truth is, I want nothing from you but…... Your breath on my neck, your gasp of pleasure.
being a Sunday painter herself, she knew the importance of cucumber sandwiches, on bread as white as a blank canvas, dirty brown crust cut out, so that every bite tasted like the first. Being a Sunday painter herself, she understood the importance of proper attire her yellow dress splattered lightly with paint. So that the accidental stains were as familiar as her face, A ghost of a memory, like her laugh, like bells. Being a Sunday painter herself, she could not ignore the importance, of being a hopeless romantic. Of fragrance filled baths, and old cameras, gathering years of dust, recording history, like a long forgotten book. Being a Saturday writer herself, only she appreciated the importance of writing down his every move, the way he would whisk her away, her heart would thump so loudly, and it wouldn't be love at first sight, but rather a love that lasts forever, an ever-lasting flame. Being a Wednesday waiter herself, she occasionally dusted the shelves, and sat by the television beside a half empty bowl of cereal. and she waited for someone to feed cucumber sandwiches to, waited for someone to miss her laugh, waiting for her weekend creations to come to life.
I have drowned myself like Ophelia, Carefully arranging my nettles and daisies, With rows of Tylenol and Benedryl. In the cloth of my child, I have been stoned, In the skin of my woman, shamed. A Tsunami for a ripple, As my then light body fell, Dimly hearing; One, two, three; clear. All is still, as child peels to woman, Soot painting my body a black that I Do not dare wear. Palms to heaven I sink, Methinks you do protest too much. Ripple, light,silver; we got her, and I gulp, Water, creatures, but not air. Naked I find myself, but still heavy like a stone, I claw with stubby fingernails up, up still. Five years later the leaves are falling, And I can mock myself, as I weep for Ophelia, Like mother for child, I gather only green leaves for her grave.
I love your work. can't wait to read more from you. you have great talent and some really hard hitting lines and images. great job.
