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Tracey Gunne


Efflorescence

Autumn~

you send white roses

is that how you want me
pure and void
of any color or scent
lackluster but with
a hint of danger

my hands tied
indebted only to you

Winter~

you bring orchids

a plant hungering for crushed bone
decaying flesh.       all the pieces of me 
i hoped were dead and gone
now potted and pruned
wilting in your adoration

if you choose to stay
find comfort in my madness
it could take years 
to hollow me out
separate me from
this mildewed heart

Spring~

you nourish the soil 

manipulate sunshine and raindrops
to do your bidding
scatter seeds in casual disarray
forth and back
the wind hazardous for the love protruding
not so firmly rooted  

even though you tend with faithful hands
weeds advance and blossom 
more dense between my thighs
softened by touch 
and moist 
where your scent lingers heavy

Summer~

you plant violets

there is nothing here
to ground me
only you
the holes you dig are small 
but necessary
a garden cultivated by 
my purple moods
releasing soft lobes
of petals falling


on what you perceive

as beautiful

Moon Ripened

There were too many drafts
in that cottage by the lake 
doors kept slamming in your head

you swam naked in the evenings
past the shallow waters 
closer to the deep end where 
the moon's light 
glazed over creases in your skin

I stayed on shore
still warm with the sun's 
impending kisses

Once a week the mail came
we walked barefoot 
on the gravel path
to greet him
then when darkness fell 
your invitation he held 
in open palm
warm and sticky

I was too old to lean 
against his knee 
on the front porch
And I knew 
he was too old 
to notice more 
than he should have
the soft release
of the oppressive breeze
when my shirt surrendered

His spirited voice
whispering in my ear
sounded like waves crashing
as my body receded 

That entire summer 
you chased bats in the rafters
with your bare hands
the moon ripened flesh
openly exposed

                  Solar Eclipse

you are nothing more
than a dream I had
wrapped inside
your cold body
while you sucked
in my flesh
licked my bones dry

said my body
contained
an entire universe
made of stars,
egg-shaped planets
and a hundred moons


no sun
​


​
Picture
Picture

Tracey Gunne's profile
Go to page 2 of Tracey Gunne's poetry

You. Or maybe it was me...

I believe in everything and in nothing
that everything happens for a reason

i believe in a god who dances with archaic movement
bathing in the light of the sun 

or the moon it doesn't matter 
anyhow because forever ended yesterday

and now resides in charming photographs
your hand resting awkwardly in the black and white

You or maybe it was me built bridges 
with evasive intent it doesn't matter

anyhow if innocence or obsession caused 
the heavy load to crash into every tomorrow

and bear witness to the sweet nectar of 
juices dripping inside the honeycomb 

an octagonal room you entered 
unscathed through the sharp edges

Hearing babies wanting to be held 
and grass whispering to be mowed

it was bitter circumstance that kept you here
not the unstable corners or lack of windows

and it was never me 
i have loved only once 

or maybe it was twice with sporadic breath 
and an affirmation of silence pending

I asked you to resuscitate your words 
so they could lay a path for the stars to map

create an effervescent cluster above 
the untended baby lost in the tall grass

but do not blame the stars

or assume they care which direction

After everyone left

you searched for me 
in the backyard
the cellar door open 
but not all the way
did I try to leave? 
hiding from
the words you offered 
after too much wine
if only I'd given you 
my heart to wear
or carry in your pocket
then allowed you to bury 
what remained
beneath the willow tree 
where the dandelion, red clover 
will hold our secrets

Growing Up On Our Street

You captivated my lonely days
by painting white lines
we were meant to jump into 
and through
your hair hanging loose and always
longer than mine
you were delicate like
the hand me down socks
your mother kept forgetting 
to mend
she was too busy cooking 
Sunday night dinners
where she'd serve herself last
so I thought it would be you 
who'd need saving but in the end
it was me
my dad outside at 2 am screaming 
at the trees to stop dancing 
as my mother tried to capture him 
like a frightened bird

Your house was safer for sleepovers
we'd spread pillows on the cold floor
the secrets you whispered were stories
I already knew
but I loved how safe it felt
as we tucked ourselves in
and how you pretended to believe
all the lies I wanted to be true
and how you hid a flashlight
in case the darkness made me dizzy
I remember wanting to touch
the soft skin behind your ear
after you fell asleep without me
and wondered 
if anyone else could be willing 
to love you more

We are mothers now to daughters
who we teach to be brave
to walk away from men
who run mad into the dark streets

We remember to tuck them in

We remember to mend


But Love Is Not So Pretty

there could be blood
gushing from the seams 
of yesterday's wound
the expected attempt
to desecrate
shipwrecked in the idea
that love is beautiful

we must shift beyond 
these guarded moments 
of euphoria
and penetrate deeper
peel back my skin
kiss my bones
reach for something
hideously sincere 
the hands we were dealt
preciously retrieving

Go to page 2 of Tracey Gunne's poetry

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