Human skin wrapped warm around bundles,
glands, muscles, nerves, and blood —
tiny fiber-ways weaving blue and red
hidden below the curving surface pumping and then quiet,
pumping and then quiet — form this woman.
A lofty visionary with work worn hands uncalloused
turned gold into flesh with his touch,
and saw the beauty of a river bank curved by rushing water,
a water drop — the natural shape of motion and breath.
She holds this energy
this grace quietly, a constant caterpillar.
People pin butterflies to their belt.
People hunt butterflies and gawk at them
dripping comments about beauty.
Afraid to be hunted, afraid not to be found
It is safest, she thinks, to be cocooned in shame, not to be proud
of her strength and wear it boldly on her chest.
I told her a story about two naked people.
He held his hand just above her skin
all over, over every inch with shock and joy
sparking the air between his fingers and every hair
every freckle every chill bump of her body.
Her entire spirit spoke through those fine
profound differences and moved his hand
demanding and giving respect, offering him
the courage he must have
within her wings.
YOU ARE READING
Poem Sunday
PoetryYep. It's Sunday. Have a poem. I am foremost not a poet, but it was an early love. And it is a form of expression that deserves as much love as it can get.
