My breasts
are small and supple and sweet
They brighten
at the sound of her voice
My nipples
are pink and round and neat
They pose
atop hills of warm snow
They welcome
her gaze and touch and taste
They ripen
in the glow of her attention
My breasts
are small and supple and sweet
They bask
in their own intentions.
I dig
and
dig
My fingers drown beneath
the swamp of earth and
molten rock like
the tattered hooves of ancient
equine -- determined and
unrelenting
I strip the soil of
its overgrowth and
greens collecting their little
lives in a pile beside the
muck and mush of the open
grave
I mock the mason as
the clay envelopes
these aging hands and
fills the wrinkles
clogging the
pores
I await the feel of
the flesh of the cold
bones crackling beneath
the mud like treeless twigs drowned
in a wave of dying
leaves
I raise my flailing arms to
the heavens -- the heavens,
no less -- clutching
nothing
And it is there that
I find her hovering
in angelic song above
my aching body and
she smiles
She consumes me
with an old breath
like ripened fruit and
day-old bread
She decays me
with molding lullabies
like native dirges and
smoldering pyres
She purges me
with a derelict's hunger
like a gorged sycophant and
love's asunder
I know there were so many things you wanted to say.
I could see it in your eyes.
Felt it hanging over the room like a wet blanket.
I know you weren't done.
I know it wasn't fair.
I know you waited even with your last breath
for
a
miracle.
And I'm so sorry that we couldn't have done more,
and worse,
that maybe
we didn't even really try.
And I'm sorry that we didn't get to know you better.
That we didn't even bother
to find a way to
love you better.
That we didn't couldn't wouldn't
give you more of our
very
precious
time.
I'm so sorry
that we left you there to fend off the wolves
alone.
Making me sorriest for not making that last stand
sooner -- and louder -- and worthy of you.
I realize now that you needed me
more than you knew more than I knew.
And I should have been there.
Despite what sucked.
And I wasn't.
And I hope you'll forgive me
my pride.
[For my Aunt Emma Marie, who lost her brief skirmish with cancer on
January 23, 2007.]
“This is my favorite part of my commute,” she whispered. And the road curved and arched like the small of a woman’s back, beguiling and persuasive. It purged itself from the valley up into a sultry patch of cedar woods, cool from the shade but moist from the day’s heat. The path cut right through the dense overgrowth, parting the trees with a smooth caress and the gentle prodding of a seasoned lover. The timber was unrelenting, refusing to give way, to give in, to give it up. They swelled and swayed. They sighed and throbbed. Slow down, take your foot off the pedal, stay a while, they said. The air was oppressive, thick and heavy, immobilizing and hard to breathe. The cars slowed, coaxed into submission by the suffocating embrace. Stay, stay, stay, they said. But the egress was imminent – 50 yards…30 feet…10 more seconds. Bemoaning the inevitable, they grudgingly ejected us back out into the scorching scrutiny of daylight leaving us feeling a little slighted and almost faint, with only the pounding in our ears and a spurious contusion between our thighs as a feeble memento.
If you have enjoyed Jo Anna Guerra's Poetry, then please be certain to e-mail her at Jo_Anna_Guerra[at]yahoo.com and thank her for posting her Work.
Click here for a list of all of Jo Anna Guerra's Stories and Poetry at Sapphic Voices Authoresses.
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