Sunday, June 16, 2013

the girl who leaked red.


I want to write poems about his collarbones,
the way his kisses make me lose my mind.
He becomes a string of anatomy;
collarbone, hipbone, cheek, jaw,
the small hollow between his lungs.  
The pebbles of his back feel holy,
I want to pray at his alter;
name each limb after a letter in the alphabet,
make a children's storybook from his smell,
 sew a dress about the way his hands linger
but never quite stop down the alphabet
of my frame. Pretty girl, he whispers,
you are like the sun, you glow. You're radiant.
I want to write poems about his hipbones and
I'll call each one after a star.
Had a soy chai after sleeping at the Poet's last night; my version of a lunar eclipse or the perfect sonata. There was blood in the toilet when I woke, clouds and clots of it. He was gone. He left behind gold hair on my jacket, an ache near my belly and smoke through my clothes. I leave nothing but bobby pins to litter the sink.
Tell me this means more than good kisses and casual sex. Whatever we call it and however honestly I carve my pain; somehow if I wrap my arms tight enough, and let my fingers flutter from his waist to his thighs, I can kid myself that we are more than the worst thing that's ever happened to us. Is the bullet wound worth the battle story? Do the scars fade in time? Because when we kiss, I can't remember a single ache.
Image 1 & 2 by David Agenjo.

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