Waltzing across a wide and withered world, I flounce my skirts of tulle and starlight. I’m a claimed woman, his name sewn in flannel on the outskirts of my pink existence. My boundaries are purple and regal as an empire’s final sunset. My man’s hands are dinosaurs – viscerally fantastic and dangerous. When he prowls through the lairs of seamonsters to find me a pure pearl of wisdom to shine on my neck, the sea reflects the moon and his eyes watching my body like a specimen of clutchable cloud. What does it mean to be a woman unbound? She is in her mortal state, that woman, wearing a tapestry of outgoing tide and longing. My name was once a lonely thing. Now it’s complete, and my God of orange and expertise calls me by that moniker.
Tag: love poem
Carpentry
Roses want facts.
The perfection of geometry turns them
Into origami beauty.
Wind has a science,
But breeze is also an uninterpretable art.
Your lips,
Carpentry measured and flush to my forehead.
Husband and Wife
I am a well he drinks from
as he spends his seventh day
wandering the desert.
I’ve camped in waiting
And know the roughness
of the terrain,
the burning banality of work.
He built our home by hand
and like a bird I added
shiny things to reflect
the sun a thousand times
to guide him home.
My body is his haven,
the end of a chase
and the beginning of a pursuit.
He lays his head on my breasts
slides his hand down my belly.
The well will never run dry.
Love as War. War as Love.
I adore
The musk of a delicious person’s weakness.
I walk like a ship in the ocean.
I have
a knife to eat,
seaside.
Destruction has not ended completely.
I stay open as an unread book.
My satisfaction
is kept on his skin,
The breakdown in his language,
The rhythmic dance of his need.
Candy
My eyes
Without permit.
Thrill shivers beneath my surface.
Light candy.
Stripping pink silhouette,
Like wallpaper,
Like lover.
My cloak is a cloud,
Dark, and rolling over me as a storm
over a fruitful plain.
Call me by my needs.
Can you tell where I’m going,
All finesse and shard?
The space between my thighs
A confection.
Under My Curves
You will end up under my curves.
Your lips will manifest as stamps on my skin,
Your authority the book I read all day.
You peck at my boundaries,
mysterious weapon
of want and need,
Ascending from sin
To pure release.
Love in 3 Parts
When I cry,
My life murmurs in red.
*
In the recital there are some mistakes.
We all make mud of our music sometimes.
*
His hair is silvered like song,
And he seizes me in my depths.
My Lover
Cracked moon
like a mind,
or still birth balloon.
Glowing over gold fields of grain,
illuminating icy igloos,
milky white cataract of craters
crawling with crusty cultures like
a search engine.
He sees my body contort alone,
my skin cold as fright,
and if he sees my lover breathing and being
away from me
he says nothing.
Yearning
Love
What if love is a yellow gel pen?
Bright, beautiful, illegible?
And if you have left your vision in someone else’s well,
what then?
Miniature Moon 