A blank sky starts out
and just like that
like embers flicking
popping
rising
from a camp fire
a Universe is on fire
holding hands
twisting fingertips
underneath precious metals
of an Earth
for the sake of intimacy
on black heels
in a month
like August
like seductive and
sweet
she is a golden pear
dangling fresh in the night air
all men have met her
at some point
she becomes bitter
after the picking
after the tasting
after familiarity increases
Sunlight spills out over the sky
and I watch the women dance,
strings from Heaven attached to each limb,
red lips painted with French curls,
I love them so much.
I loathe them so much.
They lift off the ground with majestic beauty,
gliding from toe to toe.
They seem to sleep on clouds,
pretty ballerinas that Pas
around town.
In the library, they seat quiet children
who are stainless and educated from
high value,
they swim in holy water with
moulded figures sticking out and I drool
along with the men,
and I love them so much.
Oh! I loathe them so much.
They fall like pink snowflakes,
kissed with Latter Day sprinkles,
the daughters of God who walk on Earth
next to me, searching for my palms,
serving me with the grace that Sunday could bring
but I will not listen.
I cannot.
My ears have been cut from my head by
Van Gogh’s paint strokes,
Mozart is pounding his fingers against my
chest in C-Minor, and
all of the words that have ever been written
by limbless men
and lipless women
sing as a group of cellos,
rooted deep in my naval,
where I began.
his laugh is familiar
like an old couch that swallowed me
every night, while I dreamed of
an old waxen witch
my hands are angry tonight,
but all I can think about is
that old couch,
wrapping me in its faded blue
arms, holding my fright in
its warped interior,
sucking me away from solitude
before any man, I found intimacy
in stretched fabric, I relinquished my
sweet innocence to an upholstered
mass
and find it all again,
in a laugh.
It took only his few words in sight,
tied together on specks of dust,
sent to me on the back of July’s
thick breeze.
I stood as openly as my chest would allow,
reading his words from the hot pavement,
soaking in a fresh idea, feeling
his tone
settle deep in my ribs.
It is not an uncomfortable place for him,
for me,
unlike the others. He is a choice.
I gather his aromatic movement
like a lilac wedding bouquet and plant
his image between my special vessels
and skilled capillaries.
At first, years ago, when I kept my eyes
and cheeks naked, it
was not a choice. His parasitic words glued
themselves to my eager young ears, prepared to host.
Now though, his silvery voice is
passion fruit,
a red sweet juice that saturates me,
and it took only his few words sprawled
in the hot July pavement,
“I think of you every day.”
maggiemaeijustsaythis 