I got some actual work done today and also started on these since they were all impatient and wouldn’t wait. –d
You lean your right knee
against the bony anchor of her left.
Her hand unoccupied on the table,
you braid its fingers with yours.
Eyes fixed ahead
as if to un-happen the rise of sun.
onto the beyond.
You touch her fingertips
to your lips, a kiss too generous.
Maze of nerves frenzy.
She is flushed.
Warm breath in her ear
sidles beneath the horn section.
Raises cilia fine as dust to a lazy dance.
The whisper is mint and needles:
they’re really good huh.
Uncover the last awkward site
of this un-happening.
With your knee in grip.
LIVES I’VE UN-LIVED
“My body will not be a tomb for other creatures.” Leonardo daVinci
The one in leather loafers
Greek letters puffy sandpaper under his crisp shirts.
He was dismissed in a text. This is not working for me.
His costumes smelled antiseptic—too clean—and his beard,
as if painted, precision sharp like the danger of his cataracted reflection
in any mirror except his own. Sheets stained from its caress.
If more could blunt the blade
would the scars turn tattoos; deliberate recalcitrants?
The one who had never been in a home alone—
there was mom, dorms, girlfriends,
and roommates who smelled like spaghetti and socks—
was denied her voice.
She stopped answering his fingers, tongue, penis and calls.
It took a month for him to hear her silence.
A month before he realized
he could not build a new home on her reluctant smile.
He engineered a plaster of his lonely to pack into the arc
until it was flat, ready. A home built on boneless ghosts
bowels who would only soak the porous plaster to saturation;
rot whatever he built.
If he tries his skill elsewhere; lets it calcify under years
will she recognize the tombstone or call it for sculpture?