Riding on high mountain road, I look to the right with eyes gliding
behind a window of sixty mile-an-hour winds. I catch an illusion at the
mountain’s crown- perfect and round full breast slightly above the gentle
arc of the smooth belly, hip bending into rising thigh, all tips and
curves, voluptuous earthen mother giving herself to the sky.
Then, as the car moves on she is gone. Picasso reality set in as warm
and peacefully as mother’s milk distorting the illusion, all that
remains are the crevices. The ones you explore only to find another, and
another. And what were you hoping to find anyway? The panacea? Some magic
elixir to soothe all the pain when you can’t even tell where it
hurts…the golden key when you can’t even find the door. Waiting your whole life
for someone to come along and tell you where to go and what to do, only
to spend the rest of your time defying every command. So- hold me even
though I don’t need you Kiss me then swoon Love me even though it makes
me sick Pull away and make me feel you so I’ll never have to say…
She never said a word, but the message carried in her majestic limbs
was unmistakable. I heard her say:
Today, child, and maybe tomorrow, but don’t count on any of the days
that follow.
And then the lady ascends. Above and beyond my grasping sight.
Eggs are frying yellow leaking and
white bubbling expanding to
Overtake the sun,
and smother the horizon..
“You just don’t care about anything,
do you?”
She absently scoops up the mail
and neatly rips it open in her
efficient, capable hands.
Standing loudly next to me she
sighs to insure that I am
getting this while she
insincerely stares out the window,
missing the sky.
“Is something burning?”
The day is boiling,
sweating her out to be
gathered golden and bloodied
in an uncrackable shell her
voice is rising—
All I am hearing,
is the crackling of overdue
eggs are frying...
I pull a white cotton shirt and
tan slacks from jingling hangers They
rattle on in their cage as I
Walk-
she lay there waiting, but I didn’t come.
Masked with fresh scents of Maja and
white musk I slip cleanly into
pressed and armed attire and I
Turn-
what’s on your mind, her voice
pungent and crisp in point and curve.
I pull a sterile brush through
thinning tangled hair Bits of
flesh and nonsensical words rise
up in dusty spots Something begins
To take shape…
I am staring at the hazy shape reflected in
the fogged bathroom mirror Misunderstanding
what I am seeing And even when the steam
clears I make a tenuous connection at best I
could stare all day and not get anywhere so
it is for the best that I
Move-
with her hands tangled in my hair she
is bringing her lips from mine to
rest gently against my ear Let it go-
she whispers and it is like a key turning-
I am on the brink of leaving my
Hand on the door-
she is saying, very softly, You’ll tell me
Someday, when you’re older- before she
quietly slips away.
and I am older. paler and thinning with my
hand still on the door-
If you have enjoyed latheo7's Poetry, then please be certain to e-mail her at daplin_42[at]hotmail.com and thank her for posting her Work.
Click here for a list of all of latheo7's Stories and Poetry at Sapphic Voices Authoresses.
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