No pillow comes without residue.
At our age, blessings come in small forms…
hands cradled together,
words buried in sweet breath,
unconditional nights,
uncontrolled…..
Tell me about your exploration, about
fingertips trickling down
courage….
spines do not break easily, do they?
I met you today,
I see your influence and result,
you probably know
that I see through blue eyes,
saturated by the way your fingertips move.
quick bolt tight lightning
grip, thigh deep
in thick sand
south landing mound
in palm of your hand
hot air
tumbles over bare
back, raw hide lash
prints where cougars
sit
Black panther, I pray
for a taste
of your thread,
silk lessons spinning
deep under
skin
pricked thorns leak
wildly like
we
a gesture
a kiss
a swift, single move
then tongue to tongue
a battle for the best
pulse over pulse
one
sweet
gulp
I feel him rummage through my midnight hollow
fingering my heart,yet he will not follow.
His calloused hand move like hours
I blossom and bloom, but wilt like flowers.
I yearn for his stem, his waves, his oil,
then a part of his lips leads me to recoil.
I ache for touch, but my swells still clench,
I turn toward him, the reward of his wrench.
How is skin so familiar? Fingertips so strong?
This is what happens, when time turns for too long.
My pillowcase creases with the gnaw of my fist,
daylight is easy, but night can’t resist.
He is planted so deep, so deep in my dreams,
my body is taken by the past that screams.
His hands tick, with the minutes, away,
with the rise of the sun, my light starts to fade.
Deep in my screams, I run till I wallow
into the dark, my midnight hollow.
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.
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