Shards of Bone
Truth was
encased
in shards of bone
and lies made
flesh,
Rode a static
injured rhythm
toward
something salty
or something bloody
something sightless
maybe just something
live,
Truth was
encrusted
in slivers of iris
and lies took refuge
in the shadows of pupils
black,
But we only ever found
caricatured limbs
and starved, suckling
mouths in an
otherwise unremarkable
kiss.
Poet Between
I want a poet
between my thighs,
wicked tongue wrapped
in verse,
drive and provoke,
serenade
this dancing knot
of prose hidden here,
a hungry mound
saturated beneath a soft
cocoon of sweltering flesh,
suspended in expectation
inspired to spill forth
steaming compositions
sticky on his epic lips,
grinning.
And he’ll rise then
breathing a new stanza
onto my fragrant neck
“Sandalwood,” he’ll whisper
as he fills me with a new
refrain
emphatically taunts
my music
to sing down onto
his tightened fuse,
running rivulets spiraling
along his determined thighs,
crying out into his
listening ear,
a requiem so potent it
drips off the page
and becomes some reality.
A Child’s Dandelion
(For Anais)
In the end,
I will weep.
You don’t have
to remind me of that.
But still
I refuse to simply observe,
to delight in colors which
I cannot taste
and flavors that sting my eyes
from afar.
The process
of becoming
has become
painful.
Rather the salt of tears
on my tongue than the sour
of an empty mouth.
Belief is a delicate fixation,
fractured in a blink
and gone where it
cannot be fetched back.
And I do love to believe.
I’ll weep
because the days
have come
for belief to bloom
a child’s dandelion on
giggling exhalation,
fragmented in a hundred
directions of disjointed
daylight.
The days have come
when I will weep less.
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