Witty Fay - 2
interior of a poem
Skewed merciless geography
That does not know my name,
A river of inksome potential
And tiptoeing displacement.
A coterie of critics gathered
To ponder the intricacy
Of its structure, unstructured,
Yet vibrant in its build,
And applaud the mishaps.
And a famished reading
Audience, deaf of one
Ear, thirsty for ink.
When you’re here, I dream
Of the beginning of every
When you’re gone, I feel
It all, in convulsions
Of something bearable
And I come to inhabit
The distance, in maiden words.
If you can allow yourself to walk
The perils of the inner time
And still dream a cosseted dream
Of the world, at ease.
If not, climb on the sill of my window,
I owe you endless stories of delivery
And my voice speaks all earthly tongues.
Down like the rain,
Down like the rain-
A fresh injection of people
In the veins of the inhumane
Shall give all the hardihood
It takes to cut them open
And stuff all the souls inwards.
I flinch not from the javelin, the spear or the bullet,
Nor am I shielded in cast iron.
Still, heart and vein are safe
From thoughts of life and force,
Getting lost within the four chambers.
It is the reverse side of fear
Where vulnerability is offered with both hands
That I hide from your eyes.
The diversity and opulence of the square inch of skin,
Swathed by the stealing gaze,
Makes the most intriguing attribute of us.
Something growing in a certain place of my world
That comes unclothed and at risk,
First to the mirror, then to the touch of your hands-
It is the very neck of love.
When the face falls like a cowed Cain,
It is such a reminder of the otherness
In both of us, as sin and grace
Inhabit the rest of the world.
Femininity as masquerade
I, sweaty nape,
And eyes on the peeling apple,
One bare shoulder against the wall.
Heat growing numb on my skin,
Your silhouette from my mind
Shining against the blade-
A filigree of ache.
Uncalled, I suppose.
Fruit lay proud in my lap,
Their redness stained by salt.
Radio humming in the distance-
A necessary torture-
Drawing you into my mental landscape
Growing into my skin,
Grafting itself, irremovable by rinse.
No, I am not prone to exaggeration.
My flesh is swollen with your cells
That won't shed or become
And I ceased to spot the cerulean of the day since...
So they say the night is long over
And the dawn is ripe.
Such liars should be stoned.
The memory of you, as well.
Into the deepest trench,
Around a Mariana's neck.
The cells and strings,
This biology of you
Spreading its limbs next to my skin,
Warm and prickly and alive-
I want to wrap myself into the smell of it
But the split infinity of their stance
Saddens the day of me, the night of me,
The all of us
That is neither everything, nor anything
Under the breath of a sun too short.
In a word, I am not wise and there yet.
A doughty breeze stroking my hair
The self-sufficient smell of lilac in the air,
Velvety noises rising from the starring grass,
Almondine eyes bright shimmering like brass,
Brave arms just quelling all the fear,
The sound of love in finely grained veneer,
Do breathe aliveness in time's accordion folds
For fate to vanish where the shadow holds,
And as I parley all the spark inside,
The scythe of choices melts away beside
All other summers we have lost between
The tolls much taken and the ache within.