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Saturday, December 12, 2009

sex, church, love...more? an incomplete series



Her cheeks are Cardinal virtue in flame-like red,
but I don’t care for anything but her eyes,
liquid visages of the phantom of our grave.



I see a seed of it there
like a rhinestone’s cheap glimmer,
a 16th note of our tongues and teeth,
clacking together.



I’m grounded in the mocha of her curves
like lightening to the earth.
Her fedora a buoy
in a pool of crested sheets.
Blue writing seeps into paper
to match the color of the couch
I sink into like heels
on softened earth.



The alto above me sings
to match the song of a macaw,
her melody a shade
of their vibrancy.



As her aria trickles
down to me,
I fade into rhythms
of snare drums
and a tap dancer’s feet.
The lights are
off in church.
We sit next
to white candles
by the priest,
behind the altar.



He says something
of the Word
that I don’t hear
because he is sitting
there, adjacent the gate.



I daydream of more
than his blue eyes.
An appropriate image
for Sunday Mass.

2 comments:

  1. love this. i'm always captured by your metaphors. beautiful.

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  2. There is one last one to this. I just finished it last night.

    The paper is a purer white
    than the snow that glistens
    on the ground outside.

    I write a letter
    to her, to let
    her know how I feel.

    Its postscript is a blotch,
    a tear worth more
    than all my words.

    ReplyDelete