Thursday, December 22, 2016

poem in the final moments before love

A line of doomed bellies recedes
Our losers perpendicular to the wall

I am the neutral body
placed upon the plane
forced against this steep incline
sheltered by the shallow saying

          “Then, it seemed
he controlled his broom of flies with one deft wrist
          – oh warm and humming broom
          – to push away water
 flooding the paths of your familiar garden – that is,

 the space between your flowers;
 is each flower its own?

 I am not my own

though here I am and I have slapped her back
                                   to shake her sturdy tits
                                   to make her laugh
laugh to throw off some cough of salt and ash

I helped her cough
held her like a cup

cupped bud and breast, and all her flesh
I never stopped, never wanted hunger
                        – always had hunger to share
Warm on warm, the blood that dripped
    from my beard to her chest
    hot as the useless love
    that haunts my empty bed.


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