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Open Poetry #41
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Indian Burn
| Open Poetry #41 |
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Indian Burn |
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bel1e Senior Member
since 2006-07-24
Posts 1631
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So say these rooms are darker than you remember, these distances between bones, so deceiving, the syntax of castanets at the windowsill swell all the cells with silk, my body, sunburnt and translucent as moth wings, bring the viral inconsistencies in the sternum to anchor my reddened limbs into the desperate slope of the heart, as I gather milk and moonlight at night, the phantom tantra of your lips, open my mouth as deliberate as the throat swollen with rain, remembers how your kiss takes to cold, at the collarbone, something slender and unlaced, your mouth, a length of silver chain wound about the impossible symmetry of my dress made entirely of vowels, dried roses caught in its hem, baby’s breath tangled and dangling from my hair, see how the body becomes an apology, bending into an alabaster suicide, its entreaties carved into the heart, in the tar at my shoulders, and now, how the fibula splits open, feathered, I am this dark seed across a canvas, a furthering, azaleas harbored in the languid anklebone, and sudden water gathers at my hem, bears the scent of hurricanes and lilies, all this mayhem in the cells, begin to loosen its wreckage, the rough of your hands, river-wild and dark, cool against my cheek, the ropes of your arms bind the moment, opaque, and I lose my way among the hours, dimly lit through the damask curtains, the windows are veiled by a steady rain, and in my famine, I swallow enough of this gin to drown, the dark collects in my mouth, as the muslin flesh presses the seams of my dress in blackened promises of milkweed and almonds, Thursday, at last, and there are sonnets in my hair, these hours are so rare, the indigo in our roses spread like bruises, as you weave poetry into the hemp of a collar, my wrists, all Indian burns and snakebites, snap beneath the jungle gym where lilacs burst against the barbed fence, the light swallows the seconds and how my face is hollowed by shadow, moths beating themselves, merciless against the porch light, as you still, your body listens to the gentle burning in my bared forearms, the taste of copper, the risk of skinned knees that bleed in the lull of nightfall, when I begin to braid my daughter’s hair, fireflies in a glass jar, at the panes, dizzy and wanting, whisper their pale accusations, left scrawled in the margins, in a drier season, I tear out the furious passages of my body, and survive solely on ritual milkbaths, as lips allow in a liquid innocence, though it takes more than this to drown, the giving in, a tangle of amber braids in the undercurrents, there is a gentle tedium to my hair between your fingers, my throat beneath your thumbs, a thickening of immaculate tethers to bind the seizures about your lap, the octaves atremor, like cicadas, all those days in the ground, the damp wrinkle of their wings, years I have been hiding the bones in the words, as the syntax of sorrow and jazz darken the windows of this room, on a day that can go no further.  |
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Cpat Hair
since 2001-06-05
Posts 11793 |
a lovely scribe Belle... your way with phrasing and imagery is to be envied... and I often do... |
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bel1e Senior Member
since 2006-07-24
Posts 1631 |
Chief~ ((thank you, love))~ ~cinnamon kisses~ ~baby |
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Kahlil Senior Member
since 2003-04-12
Posts 1881 |
incredibly rich, touching all the senses... I was delightfully lost in this...and found... |
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bel1e Senior Member
since 2006-07-24
Posts 1631 |
kahlil~ thank you~ ~a pleasure to immerse you in my lunacy for a moment~ |
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Dominique-Simone Senior Member
since 2005-11-12
Posts 643 |
This is beautiful... Very nice and I love the descriptions you use |
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bel1e Senior Member
since 2006-07-24
Posts 1631 |
Dominque~S ((thank you)) for saying so~ ~hugs |
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