Distance, revisitedI am blurred by the miles,with such distance,I could be naked.Put on your reading glasses, and perhaps, surprise!I am space between your toes,cracked, dry, peeling. I spend too much time thinking of your feet,imagining the taste of dirt, the scrape of your toenail,the crack when you flex them.There is a man, perhaps, you.He is far,and with such distance,I think he's calling me pretty. Maybe he's just calling to me: hey girl, hey-hey girl &
FingerspellSometimes, she would dig her nails in my palmas she told me what she wanted. She never apologized.Fingers would diligently beat upon my hand;her thoughts were extraordinary, unpolluted, mine.If she suspected my attention had wandered,those sharp nails would sink into my pale flesh.I slapped her the first time she did that.As she got older, and her face became fullerif my palm were to strike the cheek, it would be in a caress. Yet, I sat still,waiting for her hand to featheragainst my mouth before applying pressure."Open your mouth!"Her fingers would order."Speak. Speak."This is what she wanted. To feel the vibrations of my voice against her soft milky hand.Her free hand would venture from my wrist to my shoulder,pulling on the cloth of my blouse.It would reach my throat, and first give a strong squeeze.Only when I gasped, when the muscles submitted,would she allow the hand to release.Her mouth would break, and ma
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.