You have strands like the sunny-side sea,
a blushing nook I want to bury myself in
as if I were a lost child or an immaculate
conception, stirred together with the pastels
of starry eyes,
moon-gaze strolls,
milky puzzles
that we could fit together
in order to piece the image
of my distorted self-preservation,
an exhibit by the collaboration
of dust from our closed windows,
cloaked with the pigments
we discarded and dis-regarded
so effortlessly
like the attempts of two
or you
and
someone
like me.
I am a skipping stone, ripples across water
like change between two bare bodies. I am changing
as if I am autumn myself.
I am the eve of the equinox. I’ll be there soon.
I’ll be a dawdling leaf transforming
into a single, lonely ash
or a snowflake—
so cold,
so opposite from the rest; however,
I will land onto something warm
like hot breath
or newly brewed coffee,
and I will melt,
rising with the steam
and the dust
and the renewal of my dense eyes.
Let me swim in an ink stained page
that is dog-eared from reminiscent fingers
and soft coffee breath—
words will mingle with the thread
around my tied tongue, becoming
the fibers that hide between the cracks
of my teeth, creating an intangible
cavity in the crook of my rotting lips.
Could I spit it out and examine
the prayers that my throat has never tasted?
Could I touch the sanctum of syllables and sweet
speech that builds in my sharp cheek?
I want to be an archaic book
that you can read and read and read.
I want to be a poem
that kisses the seams of your pocket
or your ghostly spirit.
I want to speak
with the letters
engraved
on my feathered soul,
which lifts me up
when I don’t know what to say.
You’re very welcome! And thank you, sincerely. That means a lot (:
Crispy apple zeal on the base of
a curling tongue—
so sweet,
so bitter, like rose petals,
or honey lips
that you can taste with
your sensible eyes:
extend your senses
and consume my hallow
supper that I have brewed
and brooded for you
and your accompanied ghosts.
I’m glad you think so! And I think yours is lovely. A Sylvia Plath and Ted Hughes marriage sounds perfect (minus the early death). <3
Ah, I was thinking the same thing as I read your writing! All of your words are lovely. Thank you so much for following and reading my own.
Limbs vehemently engrave whispers into the
salted wounds of our mother,
and she welcomes them,
her children,
unto the warm embrace of a blossoming bosom:
impressions of dusted bones,
of that cage where infants were torn
from chasm-born hands
and struck the delicate cheek
of her seeded shades of drowsy curtains—
swaying and swaying
and sway-
ing
into these graves that we have dug.
1. It’s the rusted image
of a typewriter, scarred
like bones in the winter:
the stale lullabies that
can still be heard in
vacant corridors,
2. the sweet aroma of
buds blooming beneath
waking willows and
gleaming as if they
could see the landscape
under that midnight-blue sun,
3. an amber flame drifting
along the chapped-lips of
a thriving fire pit, where
hands gathered like
sun beams in the ghostly
autumn night,
4. a womb-born woman
conceived at the bottom
of a broken ladder,
painted by the dust of her
spirit, as she continuously
gives birth to you and me,
5. and the sacred thread
that binds flesh into
the ceiling of the Earth,
burnt offerings, so that poetry
may spread our ashes into
the open eyes of daily life.
