Sleep Walking W-I-P IIHe's always had the prettier mouth.Since we were children, the curve of flesh won the affections of many. His tongue would dart out of his mouth, first jabbing the right nook as if to check if it were safe before licking the bottom lip, his little teeth white with mischief. That fat little lip would glisten, and in the glint of the light my green would reflect. Mother couldn't dismiss his requests or admonish him when he broke valuables, because when he pushed that bottom lip out and teary brown eyes would connect with hers; he'd break her heart. Tears would titter on the edge of those full eyelashes, dancing on the root of the hair before sliding down.Mother's indignant scoff met my poor attempt to pout and a flash of tears, and she'd call for the Nanny. He melted Father when that mouth would purse together stubbornly during a stern lecture. He kept his head up and his shoulders pushed back. I'd like to think I possessed the same control as he did, but I
Perihelion, revisedI've known your face since I could breathe.The formulation of paper-thin lungs,took a moment.The nourishment of your facethe only thing I remember from the womb;it lasted years.Girl stared at the sun--Little one, close your eyes, keep them closed!(Surpise!)You were the bursting capillariesagainst my lids,The blur of vision,my sunlit memory.I shall know you.My fingerprints hold a map thattrace the curve of your lips.
Aphelion, revisedMaybe it would be best to tell you nowthat there are squalls in your eyes.In the black of your pupil,I found a clipping of her hair. It wasn't mineto find; I left it there. Hurried to what I love most,your herculean jaw.I close my eyes to a burst of red,and though it reminds me of your strength,I see nothing but her jacket.It was lying about in your sclera. Your lips, pressedhard together, thin houdini lips,an exclamation.Your mouth parts, to breatheand allow me passage into the wintry fjord,nicotine yellow mountain tops.Theres this wrinkle beneath your eyefrom whiskey, or from years of fearing your father.I can see her, the hesitant smile,slant of her eye, the pitchof her hair.The crow's foot was the full curveof her breast. The apple chunklodged deep in your throatwas her pug nose,a half-chewed ball of sweetmeats.Two fingers, mine,slide down your neck,just beneath the jaw.I feel the pulse of a manwho doesn't love me.
AphelionMaybe it would be best to tell you nowthat there are squallsin your eyes. I can find no solacein there, and if I were braver, Iwould have fought harderto find something that would give me warmth.In the black of your pupil,I found a clipping of her hair. It wasn't mineto find; I left it there. Hurried to what I love the most,your herculean jaw.Close my eyes tight,the burst of red, and though it reminds meof your strength,I see nothing but her jacket.It was lying about in your sclera. Your lips, pressedhard together, thin houdini lips,the cold expression--the break of my heart, an exclamation.Your mouth parts, to breatheand allow me passage into the wintry fjord. These nicotine yellow mountain tops,there's this wrinkle right beneath your eyeperhaps, from years of whiskey, or from years of fearing your father.I just assumed, it was from her. I can see her,her hesitant smile, the slant of her eye, the pitchof her hair.What