Diana Matisz
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Interim
fevered dreams abandoned me thankfully, left me to my own devices, and i found myself wakened from this somnolence pressed to curvilinear ridges to the hard insistence of cool rough planes unfurled beneath me my fingers stretched to grasp every surface inch of raw hibernal pleasure you've been storing up since winter cached until i wanted you in my fevered dreams |
Photo art by Diana Matisz (click art for larger view)
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"The river feels old today..."
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The river feels old today skin and bones old old, like memories pressed between ice |
Photo art by Diana Matisz
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"I wish I may..."
Photo art by Diana Matisz
I wish I may
I wish I might
I took down the jar
of wishes from the shelf
where they’d been reaping age
held them to the light
one by one,
searching
for a hint of viability
and found them dead
or dying
I’d kept them
much too long
hoarding their promise
their glittered edges
still keen with risk
they’re nothing to me now
but tin-whistle waste
I strike a match
and into the smoke-gray
quittance, I say
have the wish
I wish tonight
I wish I might
I took down the jar
of wishes from the shelf
where they’d been reaping age
held them to the light
one by one,
searching
for a hint of viability
and found them dead
or dying
I’d kept them
much too long
hoarding their promise
their glittered edges
still keen with risk
they’re nothing to me now
but tin-whistle waste
I strike a match
and into the smoke-gray
quittance, I say
have the wish
I wish tonight
Photo art by Diana Matisz
we've always been so near...
we’ve always been so near of this, I’m certain you, steps ahead your mad fey light the genius loci of my enthrallment and me, the perfect archetype of our unfettered passion, fingertips enfolded in the pith of you coattails flying in a race to skew our parallel for one chance alignment 
Photo art by Diana Matisz
"I scour your anatomy..."I scour your anatomy
for signs of my impact, there I think I see the curve of my breast in the dark combe of your belly and is that my cheekbone wedged between your ribs? the lines into which my lipstick fades are a surrealistic abstract across your neck and the lash that floated free when you kissed my eyes has found a home in your collarbone look, how the whorls of my thighs finger-paint your hips I scour your anatomy with eyes that have never seen my impact, on your mind 
Photo art by Diana Matisz
tonight I will convene...
tonight I will convene with departing passerines I will tuck in between blackened silk remiges, every time I’ve called your name every thrust of vowels against my hungry tongue every wanton sigh their own siren, is the south but for me, they’ll chart an easterly and later, when you are quiet and replete, the air will writhe with something unexplained your face will lift your eyes turn west turn west to me, and the departing passerines |
Photo art by Diana Matisz
I Thought of You Today...
I thought of you today I felt that amaranthine rush and after all this time the flow began the slow bleed-out of good intentions I missed your eager thrusts into my mind, the physicality of your self-imposed distance, I missed the arch of your silence against my pulse I wanted you to be watching from another room, your eyes in rapt regard I wanted you to see me bleed, just once 
Photo art by Diana Matisz
"It is in the pitch-dark hours..."it is in the pitch-dark hours
when no one else can see us that our broken hearts bleed out and blossom in chrysanthemums of ache Island Reverieneighbor's early roses
heavy with chilled rain punch scented holes in lost memories reveal deja-vu Martha's Vineyard vignettes a man, tall and svelte blue eyes in competition with sea and sky friend of a friend, with a smile only holiday freedom could muster his outstretched hand an invitation to the temptingly new never-ending wildflower days of sun-braised kisses voracious appetites spiked by cozido à portuguesa and home-made wines sunset dives from rocking piers into peach-stained Atlantic silk wide eyes spying James Taylor over breakfast at the Black Dog Tavern a tiny gingerbread cottage, hot and redolent with island musk moonlight through a tinier window observing the dance in time-worn contemplation one week of pleasure this assault on the senses so potent, so momentous and the tall man's name, long-forgotten Until Thenuntil you let me ride love
into the ground until i'm splayed, exhausted, across your planes and you tongue the salt between my breasts until your fingers inscribe vowels on my lips and your lips become catalysts of pleasure on my nape until your eyes can see each ripple of surrender beneath my conflagrant skin and every guttural plea issued from my throat is honeyed by your name until then i am a spirit without a home an ache without a moan
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