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Poetry

The ramblings of a woman who spent too much time in confession and too little time trying to figure out what exactly she was apologizing for.

HOUND DOG

126 18 5

by __evemarie

by __evemarie

I STILL SMELL YOU ON ME.

LEMONGRASS MEMORIES OF
ROLLING IN CLOVER-COVERED VALLEYS
CLING TO MY COTTON DRESS

[I tried washing you off of me, no, I'm—]

I'M TRYING TO GROW UP.

RID MYSELF OF FUTILE
SUMMERS SUNBATHING,
SEARCHING FOR THE
LIGHT IN YOUR EYES,
PRAYING I'M ITS GOD

BUT ADMIST THIS
BAPTISM OF THE MIND
THIS HUNT FOR ATONEMENT

I'M FINDING THAT
YOU ARE THE PUREST PART OF ME
AND I CAN NOT CLEANSE MYSELF
OF YOUR PRESENCE

[I don't know if I am even attempting]

FOR CROW'S FEET FORM
BESIDE GLASSY EYES

AND

I'M STILL BARKING
IN THESE STANZAS,
WAITING FOR THE DAY
YOUR SCENT GUIDES ME HOME.

This leash, this silence, pulls me apart.
Loyalty doesn't expire with the body, I've learned.

I'm still a dog with a bone,
chewing on childhood years,
hoping if I howl loud enough in poems,
you might hear my call.
I might follow you home.