Morning comes quicker, next to you,
moss headed stranger, I knew you "when".
two lips, a primrose promise at dawn,
and fumbling little limbs, we are bells and buttons,
things kept like dust on silken flowers,
french doors and dainty corridors winding
slow, like honey.
We hid with skill.
marmalade fingers, farm land instincts of herding,
sleeping belly up in huckleberry overalls with languid legs,
under the spruce,
You offer up handfuls of yellow, cupped like last hopes of water,
skyward, north bound, flying,
this is Home.
The wheat is the keeper, of secrets,
rust parts, and lost dolls dressed in bartered silk.
Her name was Bess.
Out in the open field now, I'm not afraid to be all bare legged, letting the earth kiss up against those raw chigger bites. Under my nails sit the charred skin broken and ripped from home and my belly is full with a baby. I'm counting dead stars and thinking of lion made promises of kings watching everything the light touches. Pondering about sugar roses atop those birthday confections I eyed in the city windows. Dew drops, and tears and tea bags all liquid, all cousinly, all sprouting from the same location on my radar. My wrist doesn't tick and I keep the hours with the colors, purple at seven and navy at three. I keep colors close by...
my reflection in the Koi pond is swelling,
you'll think I'm fairer naked and freshly scrubbed,
heady apricot mermaid at your ribs,
I do love you.
and in the graveyards deep into the a.m. hours they will find our names
eloquent old folks, weren't we quaint,
your soil heritage and my roman roots,
we will be framed rice paper, just like the postcards pressed
with lilac and cyperpedium that I keep,
under pillows, in drawers and bound in twine.
whisper me to sleep with Baudelaire,
rip me bare to bones,
assault my inner yoke and sprout me out from the bed of decomposition gathering
at my spine.
separation and the waxing moon,
I have no head for numbers and figures,
But at least I know that four and seven make eleven.
be small with me, please.