worn hands wake sacred
naked, blind
bathed in the breath of morning,
hands that glowed and flowed
and broke electric
palms that cupped or tried to
cup the outlines of breasts, starlight,
some warm summer smell-
bone marrow
bone shadow
the sweetness that a body sheds
at sunset- roses creeping up the silken skin,
spreading petals.
hands that touched or
were touched or
longed to be touched and even that
is touching something-
girls and girls press themselves
against each other and glow
with the light of so many stars
and glow with the light of so many stars
If I could
I would spend all day lying in the grass with you
Drinking raspberry lemonade
And licking each others lips
The way orange butterflies lick nectar
And beads of dew.
If I could
I would let the night unfold before us
And our bodies with it-
Red with fire and rhythm.
The moon would hang low
And our skin would smell like something primal
Close and urgent. Our skin like flower petals-
The night with lowered eyelashes.
Yesterday a small grey cat made of mist
reached up to bat at a ghostly butterfly. Instead,
her claw caught hold of blueness and ripped
such a very small gash in the sky.
The heavens are bleeding seagulls and laughter
dozens of mothy bleached birds swarming over the bay-
tied on silver leashes to the tangled hair of clouds.
The heavens pour forth feathers, as promised
the frightened fishes dive deeper into cold waters
clams clamp shut and close their eyes.
the jagged scar overhead quivers,
clouds fold over, the sky tries to cover itself,
as if ashamed. (Hands move over wrists)
instead of angels we get this.
She just sat there, full of herself like a fruit, so swollen and ripe it could burst, oozing. Juices spilled over the sofa, and she let off a faint sweet smell, thick, it clogged my nostrils and hung in my hair. I wanted to touch her, the soft hair on her arms and breasts, I wanted to touch her before it was too late and the fruit flies came. I wanted to touch her but I thought her skin would bruise, bruise and break at the edges of my fingerprints. Even at the creases of herself she was starting to leak, her armpits, under her breasts, between her thighs. She just sat there, on the corduroy, like a still life, like a peach. It wasn't something she could control, I think. I think once she gave in, her body swelled with the sunshine and glowed with the rain. Her ears grew thin like leaves, her mouth attracted bees and in the dark she slowly began to ferment.
If you have enjoyed Rose's Poetry, then please be certain to e-mail her at CageSong[at]aol.com and thank her for posting her Work.
Click here for a list of all of Rose's Stories and Poetry at Sapphic Voices Authoresses.
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