There Is One Song

There is a song, just one,
that brings him to me.
It rolls in slowly,
a drum beats lowly,
a repetitive wave that wraps
his thick arms around me,

piano keys move softly, light
fingers that grip my arms, pulling
me on to his warm chest.

She raises her golden voice to
dim candle light, our bodies braided
in shadow on his impenetrable walls.

My heart beats in my toes,
my fingertips,
I am nothing but pulse as he grazes
me with his full lips,

the piano keys surge,
the drums urge him to sink deep
within me,

her voice becomes the  angel of depth.
I shed my skin before him, an offering;
begging him to belong
to the music forever.

My heart beat follows
his fingertips outlining my sleek design,
my breath, taken by his touch,
the piano drips between my thighs,
his blue eyes recite the sky,
his honest promise.

The drum beats slow,
the piano keys gather his warm
body, his lips, his touch and
leave me alone with all the words I
want to say,

but my voice cannot reach over this song.

Familiar, Loving Skin.

Saturday morning cuddled up with me
and my headache. Oh, I have come to loathe
the way the skin of another
brushes mine.

In my mouth, I keep a wire brush
for these kinds of sentiment.
What does foreign skin want with mine?
I am not affection.
I am not security.
I am not love.

I am a long stick carved out of a fertile tree,
I wait with the rest to be carried away
for fire wood.

I do not ask you to touch me, but
burn me. Make me smolder
and burst into words that fit me comfortably
because the skin of another cannot.
My skin shrieks with the slightest of breeze.
It is angered and nervous.

A long time ago,
my familiar, loving skin was ripped from
my body, disassembled from its home. When I got
it back, I was distracted. It must have shrunk because
it does not fit properly now.

I have been wiggling in it for years, washing my insides
with cold water for deep compression, trying to find
the right size
for my bones and my muscles and all my dangling, angry
nerves, to fit.

Canker Sore

I think of my skeleton as a
canker, burning hollow in
a deep, deep cave.

My son cries about my skeleton and
I tell him,
“hush now! It is just bones.¬†
It is just white, not blood or bed.”
And it is not.

I have a long, thin canker and
I have a man with knitting hands.
He wraps me in warm stitches;
in strong pursuit.
He points me with pressed thumbs
just enough that
I pound with his heartbeat.

I am a canker and he is a mouth hosting
an ulcer. He cleans,
cauterizes me with searing tips and
I cry about my skeleton and he says,
“hush now, it is just bones.”
But, it is not.

Expose

Two twisted ropes
young
ripened
hair

jumping
twirling
giggling
squealing
lengthy brown
cuts

length covers
the truth
scented as innocence
in white cloaked
purity

misleading
boys
girls
men
women

thick strands would lay
gentle across
hairy chests

lace
bare breasts
camouflaging promiscuity
as tender
bloody
raw pieces of
a heart

one-by-one
single strands fell
attaching faithfully
to each different
fingerprint that combed
intimacy down
down
down
to the bottom of every
tiny
split
end

desertion
so subtle
so discreet

went unnoticed
but
thinned
dissipated
to
nearly stark
abolishing
fabricated scents
publishing
scandalous stories
wrapped around
fingertips
lovers
who loved
innocent hair.