Tag: love

Forbidden

Her name is Tracy and she looks at men all day

on screens and streets and books.

She is made of desires women are not supposed to have,

her sisters rendered blind by modesty.

Her dearest friend looks only at the swirl of turquoise

feelings that envelope her man

and never the back or the shoulders that Tracy hungers for

at every party,

unwrapping him from his suit while her friend prays over the meal.

And what no one knows except the pantry of his brain,

is he longs to be kissed by her lashes,

loves to be seen as a thrill,

as a man sees a woman

and a woman is forbidden to see a man.

The Yellow Sound

She is Juning at a pale farmhouse table,

a gingham table cloth singing to the rhythm of the breeze.

Sunlight sinks sonorous into her dark,

scintillating hair.

Her breath,

her summer rainbow of colors,

her cornucopia of warm feelings –

joy, ecstasy, bliss,

and their pastel coated cousin contentment,

blend in a sweet yellow hum

hovering around her.

He looks at her.

this woman of glow and pure yellow sound

and he wonders how one can contain

heat,

happiness,

music.

Father and Daughter

Religion and faith

are best friends,

are enemies.

The law is a locket with His picture and

my neighbor’s picture inside.

I build cathedrals from beads and bubble gum.

I am a girl safe

in her Father’s arms,

dressed in silk and velvet,

diamonds at my throat.

He covers my war-torn wrists

in rubies.

 

Love

A bush with two roses –

one grousing grouchy.

Grungy soul like the nineties sat on it.

Gray clouds seep slightly,

a spray paint making skin more clear

through coverings.

 

He cut me and I bled green

because I was young.

Because he removed a thorn,

I shook down to my roots.

 

With his pocket knife he smoothed me

from heel to head and I became a rose

the envy of every other rose.

 

An Absence

An Absence

 

Names filled with letters and liquor.

A twist tie twists and I hear Zest taking the

garbage out.

I want a county style day,

where those roads I love

take me from people I don’t.

The places are eager for touch.

My thigh draws his hand closer

our skin fusing under the heat of the windshield.

 

After the detergent is bought,

and the bookstore has pinned us against the wall

and takes our money, we go down the roads again

to laze and lounge

in the house of pasta we built.

 

But now the roads are curled away from me.

His hand has greater work than joy for now,

in places that growl low in the night.

Third Eye Witnesses

She harvests roses,

rivers,

righteousness.

The world watches her sleep.

Birds peer through her window

like so many anxious dignitaries in a

court of intrigue.

 

She wears the scent of sun

in a vial around her neck.

He will hunt her better nature.

color his prayers with her name.

 

This is yearning –

to be jealous of the air

because it can touch her everywhere at once.

 

In his suit of wool and guilt

he watches her pick bouquets of breeze,

spinning in a plain of demolished satisfaction.

 

At night, he whittles mathematics down

to an immaculate paste of 2

and rubs it over his body

Tomorrow he will wait by the light

and draw her in with his want song.

A Love Story in Math

7 is in love with 0.

0 is lovely,

has the DNA for heaven and Earth

and whatever the Hell my old job was.

7 is proud and strong and knows he is luckier than 6

or his ex girlfriend 8.

But he roams into the rafters of primacy,

of sharp eyed division,

and the comfort of 0 –

the way she gives of herself

and doesn’t exist,

is missed by him,

who can see only her perfection on the page

her gift for making others greater.

But beneath the tired eyes of mathematics

.000001 is also in love with her,

and is much more in reach

and glad to be.