Watermark

Love 6

6.

Love is a married man.
He is strong and lean; he's a tree.
He carries his son on his shoulders.
Love is a tunnel of laughter.

We lie together, chastely.
The bed is on fire. When I send
him away, we kiss forever.
I send him away, though my skin

is sloughing, my bones are cracking,
little fractures, one by one. When
he leaves, the walls fall down.
I sleep in the burning wreckage.

   

This is part of a series I'm working on.

• Part 1
• Part 2
• Part 3
• Part 4
• Part 5

   

From the Poetry Thursday site:

For the next few weeks, several Poetry Thursday participants will take turns hosting the Thursday post on their blogs. This week, please visit The Polka Dot Witch where you will be able to a) leave your comment linking to your Thursday post about poetry, b) find out next week’s prompt, and c) find out who will host the next Thursday post. [It will be jillypoet.]

Love 5

5.

Love is bitter and cold, with eyes
of blue fire. He shoves me away
with one arm; pulls me close
with the other. Leave me alone!
he shouts, his lips caressing my ear.

We court with our fists, then comfort
each other with tears. When he leaves,
he takes nothing. He dreams that I
weep in his closet, wrapped
in his clothes.

 

This is part of a series I'm working on.

• Part 1
• Part 2
• Part 3
• Part 4

   

From the Poetry Thursday site:

For the next few weeks, a few Poetry Thursday participants will take turns hosting the Thursday post on their blogs. This Thursday, September 6, please visit Delia’s blog Left-Handed Trees and Other Lies: Writing from the Roots where you will be able to a) leave your comment linking to your Thursday post about poetry, b) find out next week’s prompt, and c) find out who will host the next Thursday post. [It's The Polka Dot Witch]

Love 4

4.

I find Love in the kitchen.
She is solid and wide.
Her face is a secret, her hair is the sea.
She enters a room and fills it.

I want to drown. I want to know.
Plush and deep and rich, she opens
her arms, she opens her face. I sleep
with my hands on her breasts.

I drown. When I reach for the surface
I swim and swim for shore. When I leave,
I leave honestly. I take everything. I learn
to live in the desert.

   

This is part of a series I'm working on.

• Part 1
• Part 2
• Part 3

Love 3

3.

When Love comes again
he's gentle and kind. He holds
my hand. He brushes my hair.
He stands outside the closed

door, reading me poems.
He speaks in parables
and metaphors. He holds
my breasts when we sleep.

When I leave, I go quietly.
I take nothing. I dream
that he weeps in my closet,
smelling my clothes.

 

This is part of a series I'm working on.

• Part 1
• Part 2

Love 2

2.

Love is a blustery fellow.
He takes me on carnival
rides, swings me through
air like a doll. I'm a doll
with strings; I'm a puppet.
I fly, I fall, I twitch.

Love is tall and thick
and loud. He orders me
about. I obey. I obey
for the joy of it, for
the thrill. Up we go,
and down again. When

Love leaves, he slams
the door. The window crackles
and breaks. For months,
for years, I gather slivers
of glass from the floor. Broken
glass. Yellow, blue. Red.

This is part of a series I'm working on. Part 1 is here.

Love

1.

Love came to the door one day
demanding to be let in.

He folded his arms like a man.
I crossed my legs like a woman.

What do you want from me? he asked.

I said, I want you to open your arms.
He said, I want you to open your legs.

So we did.

Love 2