harking back to an earlier poem of mine: poor wendy -- all the heroines get left behind. but she was a darling after all. yes, i very much have tears in my eyes. and it shall be hard to see, and sometimes i won't want to, but i will go on looking an...
i imagine my thighs spread sweetly over your pelvis, so that our belly buttons just kiss in a happy sunrise sort of way.
somewhere in past and future, in a possible world where your arms are strong enough to hold me still, give me a love to root me to the ground.
i wonder what i'll do when i pick that pyre of funeral lilies; they are white as mrs. darling's naked scalp is now, clinical as the PICC line which sent her arm into a bloodied frenzy
(she couldn't stop crying) and i thought of my own arm, what it would be like to draw a long final line from cubital fossa to premature wrist, watch it bud like the roses on the walls of home, sweet as sangria, red as the rose in the bell jar of her home planet, left in waiting by her lover -- (but he was so young)
would i try to put my petals back in their place, or leave them scatter . would i only watch as all the life ran out in rivulets like the water that i paddled in as a child, that i drank from small cupped hands, swam in on those blood hot days where i caught a wet finger on the live wire -- where i became electric a moment --
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
