Poesia

[PoeticSilence]

NOCTURNE

Sometimes when I wake
I feel you stir in my arms
Your hand seeking mine
Before sleep reclaims you

I listen to your breathing
And focus on synchronizing
My inhales and exhales
With yours-breathing as one

These small intimacies
Require no lucidity
Only restless seekers
Of loves' comforts
And securities

[PoeticSilence]

You like it deep
And meaningful
Never minding the pain
The burn and the sting

Offering up your flesh
As a tender canvas
To the steady hand
That drips with blood and ink

Coaxing the story
From lips that pant
With anticipation
Of your memories revealed

In brilliant colours and symbols.

[PoeticSilence]

I felt my knee grinding
The sound like gravel underfoot
A low growl and grumble
Unsympathetic and harsh
Bare bone on bone

My arms and hands sport light brown spots
Like a blighted foliage
A painless, tell-tale reminder
That my autumn has arrived
Summer has gone

The short, cropped hair
Now a silver-streaked brown
My vanity like the cottonwood tree
Displaying the silver underside
Of her green leaves

When I look at my reflection
I recognize that
My bloom is fading
I've ripened, but not fallen
I've some time still

[PoeticSilence]

Here I am
Wondering, the way that I do
About how to get THERE
From HERE

When I was very young
I'd scout out my options
Backtracking my way
Testing my boundries

Swapping curiosity for indifference
I'd blunder along
Calling failure an adventure
Triumphantly lost

Then came the tentative years
With slow thoughtful progress
Measuring my dignity on skeptical scales
Polling the public opinion

But now I can't see
The forest for the trees
Because each one is so much more beautiful
Than the last

[PoeticSilence]

To The Red-haired Girl on The Bench (Outside The Museum)

Oh to be those fleece-like swirls
surrendering to
capricious
breezes

To spy the girl with fox-red curls
endeavouring to
pursuing
viewing

Art
by the Grace of God
first-hand

[PoeticSilence]

Don't Ask

I thought of your question
somewhere between a plea
and a please.
Very politely done
wrapped up with a question mark
delivered with kisses and hugs.

In the back of my mind
a memory dredged up slowly
of biology class, and a fat male teacher
who looked at girls legs far too much.
He handed us small plastic tubs
with holes punched in the tight lids
and quietly advised us
we would be learning to pith,
his piggish eyes darting around
as girl after girl inhaled loudly
at the contents of their case.

The little tool looks like a
hors d'oeuvres fork, and
is used to sever the spinal cord
behind the frogs head.
This allows his body to keep
working but be blissfully unaware
as he's being sliced open
and bleeding out.

I wanted to write to you
about how someone forgot
maybe even innocently
to pith me.

As sheets of fire burn along
my hips and back, as
layers of skin itch and throb
along my legs, and I frantically
perform each exercise three
times a day to remind my poor lymphatic system
what it is supposed to be doing.
Tapping my thymus to
stimulate my lymphatic system
into responding by feeling the
vibrations. The pain licking
along my legs, my belly, my hips.
My neck and arms throbbing in
sympathy at the gentle touches
because somehow the lightest touches
are enough to make me writhe in agony.

I wake each day gasping for air as
I remove my oxygen concentrator
that I can't afford and shut off my
apnea machine that allows me to
be awake without the figments and exhaustion
of oxygen deprived sleep. My legs are
raised above my heart and my legs
feel heavy and hurting. In my mind I can walk.
I can run. But someone else grabs shakily for the cane.
Someone else slides out of bed to unsure feet,
terrified to rely on unreliable legs, and slowly
shuffles to the bathroom.

Sitting there as the horror of what I am
wakes me fully and I want my meds to
stop the pain right now as it all wakes up
and reminds me of my new life.

Someone forgot to pith me.
Maybe innocently. Maybe not.

I can't write about this to you.
I throw down my pen and sob.

______________________________________

[PoeticSilence]

Running a potato over the tarnished metal grater
I summon the memory of you
Lips downturned, the sad and distant voice
That tells me
How your lips are your worst feature
Crooked and unevenly puffy
But I recall
That they fit mine perfectly