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Untouchedquestion marks rest
on his parted lips in eternal curiosity -
unconditional love's open-mouthed kiss;
flower petal cheeks
and poster child eyes for the hopeful -
I pray he never sees the world for what it is.
I Only KnowThere are at least
thirty-seven thousand ways
to get from here to there.
where your body fits
next to my body, your breaths
match my breaths; your
paradise, sanctuary, utopia-
surrounds my escape.
where you and I are not
the same; where your edges
break against my smooth,
your rises coalesce with
my falls, your
d i s t a n c e s
clatter against my presence.
thirty-seven thousand ways
but I only know one.
I only know the way the thumping
of your heart leads to the pressing
of our lips-
I only know the here and there that
the you and me.
He's Not Heavy1.
I don't want to be
Sometimes, his big blue eyes
are just barely enough
to ground me.
There are nights,
I want to pack a suitcase,
walk out the door,
and never ever look back.
There are mornings,
I want to throw the baby
monitor against the wall,
watch it shatter,
and pull the covers back
up over my head.
I see him watching me,
silently, in the corner
of my eye,
and when I finally turn
to face him,
Sometimes, he climbs into
my lap, rests his head on
my breast and pats the arm
I've draped across his
without words, he teaches
me how to forgive.
I thought you were the rain, but no,
I was the rain. I meant to drown you. I
wanted you to be inescapably drenched-
your trachea clogged, your mouth an 'O'
of desperate gasping, your lips parted
and blue. If I wasn't enough to die for,
I wouldn't ever be enough.
Your disappearances were noted with
darkened clouds- thick and heavy, tight
with waiting. You always returned with a
thunderclap, moving me to a downpour of
deprived longing. I was a flood and you
were a desert begging to be a sea. But
flood-waters river into oceans, and
deserts are meant to be dry.
It was selfish of me to treat you
like a boat- I liked you better capsized.
But in your shipwrecked depravity, you
sought sunshine and calm, so I took pity
on your seasick state and blew over lands
thirsty for my brand of nourishment. Then
when, with saltcaked skin and cracked lips,
you ached for my answer to dehydration, I
was busy raining over the lush.
In your time of drought, I placed the
blame in your ribcage li
SenescenseI aged half my life
in one evening:
landed on a fall moon,
full of red and the howl
Harbor womb to a fox
more wild than my birdhands,
my vernal equinox,
his twitter-pated harvest
feral child, disquiet;
I aged half my life,
wept fifty years;
Over LunchPour me another cup of coffee
on the days
I'm cold in all the wrong ways -
when the new summer sun
isn't warming the winter chill
that has nested in my bones
& the suddenness of spring,
isn't making up for the
loneliness of grey days
and the sunsets spent
Sometimes I forget that
poetry wasn't meant to be
a light read over lunch,
and neither was I.
Remembering: These Garden Hands IIWeighted and covered in dirt;
hands made for holding, for digging, for
planting, for loving -
I've carried you with me for
a thousand years, and in a thousand years
more, I will never put you down.
My fingers will never grow weary, and I
will never grow tired of seeing them go without wash.
Breaking BurdensThe unspoken rules of society:
when your hands can mimic birds
at 4 am,
tell me your stories
and defy the sky.
It only lasts a little while.
O FevraleWitching hour, welcomed with a sigh,
bare-breasted and ink-stained in the night.
Half in love in this half-life half-light;
pisat O Fevrale navsnryd, dreaming
of the gods. Wanderer, today I died and
died again, and whispered prayers
to clasped hands… until the nestled
droplets fell away like sunrays at dusk;
and when moonrise came, I sang again.
Faminei told him
i wanted to spend
paying my dues
to the circumference
of my spine, to the size
of my stomach,
that was not in it.
of my constant need,
in a voice like cold coffee.
the way you are."
i don't care
i care about hunger.
loneliness & starving
sisters. and i want to know
if the hunger that turns you
is anything like
with thanks to salingerAudio version.
it's on those cold mornings
when you are nothing but indrawn breath
swirling and knitted up inside too-big
skin and weightless bones--
when the horizon arches up against
the half-thawed tendrils of sunrise
with golden teeth,
and smiling, begs--
it's on those cold mornings
when leaving is easiest.
the car will be cold, and you will
shiver, and the engine,
much too loud,
will smack of blasphemy
but you will find peace in the steady roll
of tarmac and the yellowing light
spilling across it,
with dust motes kicked up and carried
like fish in the undertow.
when you come to that first
crossroads, it will shock you:
the way the decision hangs there
trembling and desperate--
but there are no right answers and you will not
hesitate. and each successive choice
will be made of its own accord,
and you will roll the windows down,
and draw down the scent of ear
JackIn my 57th year there was Jack
grey curls, leggy and long,
and warm as August
from head to thigh.
"You're the best thing
and the worst thing
that ever happened to me,"
he whispered into the night
giving love in parentheses,
and I fit just under his arm.
"We should have met
when we were young,"
he said, my hands tracing
the broad spring of his chest.
"This is going to be hard."
Air dry as cotton.
Heart, too heavy to fly.
Keep in Touch!
^Nyx-Valentine arrived in our community and started whipping everyone into a frenzy with her relentless desire to bring the Artistic Nude and Fetish galleries to the fore. 9 years later, and it's safe to say that Nyx is not only a leader as a photographer in these galleries, but she has also established herself as a much saught after model. ^... Read More