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
Separating skin from a tree
is a faint task, like
twisting glass back to sand.
Long, narrow veins exposed to chaos,
leave their limbs. I climb inside
them for hydration.
I’m a fish, shallow in water,
borrowing lungs from
a human.
Don’t make it glacial,
blue is the true color.
It is royal.
It is blood.
I am oxygen and it feels good!
My husband left me sweltering
during the ripe moon. I grew
ripe, too; a full cherry
hunger in a bottle
of Gin.
Then this tree, he’s latched on
to me. I pour my fingernails
in. He knows his strength
matches me tightly.
We seize together on Earth’s early
tremor, and just as I start to peel,
layer by layer,
his exposed veins melt into
venom, he turns me,
my swift hourglass
resets, twisting sand
back into glass.
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
This is where she could drip blood
if it could drip
outside of the body,
but she is internal.
Penetration can happen if lead solders
make contact.
On a bluish/gray scale,
she was never meant to be loved,
or touched,
or shot out of a pistol
well below the speed of sound.
Gather your corn cockle and doll’s eyes,
the apple orchard’s angry.
She shoots her black seeds
down your throat,
eyes pierced through skin
to watch your veins suffocate.
I met her in September
when she was frail – my mistake –
I never knew of her spines, thorns,
and thistles.
But you knew everything of her:
her laughter,
her sentiment,
her tears….
and she hid in her orchard watching
the way I would swing from your branches;
how you picked fruit ripe from my body,
how every night you crossed midnight
twisted in my edible, red
nightshade
while her delicious Golden
nectar kept well
for the worms.
In truth, I open my eyes.
I am punished
for my power.
I have refused water to dry people
and tied anchor to those who heard the word
and believed it.
I became a burning flame in
bedrooms of strange
men, who desire reward
like Corinthians say they deserve.
I am a sin by nature,
by thought,
by curve,
and undeserving.
I open my eyes.
I am power.
It is true.
For every one I have killed, I have killed the heart of two,
and taken the hand
of the most Sinister Man – his Red Blood has turned mine Blue;
and, no, I did not whisper under breath, or breath into his ear,
I simply looked through
a man, maybe two, who’s soul had smothered in fear.
I am satisfied! I am satisfied, as I swim throughout their ashes.
I feel their bones,
their dangerous undertones, then my Blue blood flickers and flashes.
Now, I know I am Queen of Sinister things;
this life, and, thereafter!
The thunder is rolling in and
I am on the floor,
waiting for the black to
explode into something more.
The piano is warm, every key stroke
lights up the room,
outside strikes of light
and his perfume
lingers after his feet.
I live for the carpet that he danced
across,
his silent promise to
haunt me
through the storms
that warned me of him
before I was born.
My birth was a golden eruption
of time
that took heartbeats from my arms
and placed them
in puzzles,
in God’s masterpiece.
His Masterplan.
If I were a man, I would have taken them
back, painting a home
in the deep strikes
outside
of the waves of thunder and
light,
but I am a woman and I am
a deep rolling drum roll
floating above the rumble,
resting my head on the outline of his
chest,
breathing in between a memory
of heart beats,
shoving the rain out of
this room
and back into the slick black piano
keys that wrap his warm
arms around me.
The bells began to spin without chime. I noticed them
long before her blue hair reached out beyond arms length;
azure fire serpents striking!
The bells twirled and whirled, and I noticed them
before her coiled locks hissed at a lush, worked field.
She had been a craving. Jellied breasts flopping
under moon beams,
underneath heavy breath sheets.
There is nothing like a beat red short bed,
the first bit of skin stretched,
meeting dropped blood-lets by a first night sunrise.
She was a place of blue bells,
lemonade peels,
sleepy grass on lazy jazz fields.
Her mind marked with umbrella lace covering May days.
She was marked by a farm boy first night.
I watched her as she carried the bells.
Big steel bells, pretty stainless chimes. She danced with them,
her long, gold locks wrapped in a warm embrace around them.
She chimed. She jingled with southern foliage while
her feet remembered his.
That’s when the bells began to spin. They twirled and swirled
and she didn’t notice them. She was wrapped in a warm night
with another’s appetite. She was cuddling with the crickets and
midnight winds.
On and on and on this went.
Forever couldn’t measure the time. The sun had went blind.
The moon sweat itself dry.
I watched and realized just how thin my own breasts were,
and I was grateful.
For one day came when she noticed the silence of the bells,
she recognized the twists,
and the turns,
and the absence of the crickets and midnight and feet.
Shock came at her, a black bat of attack. Her golden strands
suffocated, turning as blue as that cold moment.
And there she became.
She stood with force against the night fields,
Miss Serpentine, on fire,
blazing lush, worked fields back at Mister Red Short Bed and
her overstretched skin!
She hang hearts. Seven of them.
Red pumps from flesh addicts,
seven of them.
Seven black suits that took her
dancing, then
to a buttoned up apartment
to unbutton
her dress.
Her white legs shook as she thread
dead chambers,
ashamed
of suits
that dance and bring
red-heads night caps.
She sits. Silent tears escape while
seven men
seep
life, dry.
maggiemaeijustsaythis 