|
Sample poetry from learning to walk in heels
, said the girl to the boy.
If we were lying in a nest
of long grass, padded down,
and there was nothing
but the sound of sky,
I would whisper all my secrets --
like the blackbird to the tree.
found in difference
I want the light off,
and though she scoffs
she wasn't granted any such privilege,
something about my Please
hits a nerve and she concedes.
When I picked blue for the walls of my room,
she'd teased about predictability,
said all my dirty secrets were the same
as every other boy our age.
Instead of tattooing my arm,
I dared her to
show me. Her breasts
didn't hang like Mother's;
the underside wasn't hidden,
but they did jiggle
when she laughed,
and after the agreed
three minutes was up,
(one for each confession
to come) she didn't put her shirt straight
back on. Instead she stood
wavering for a few seconds,
wearing a serious look.
My parents' bed makes noises,
usually on a Saturday night
and your smell changes
during certain times
of the month
and neither repulse me.
The Meteorologist
He predicts the outlook
each day, as he lies back
and counts the cracks on a ceiling he didn't paint.
He had learnt
how's the weather, dear
was easier to answer
and the proceeding forecast moved them closer
to a crocus
peeking through march snow.
The Moon
She was drawn in
pastel shades
that flattered her oh so much,
she believed, when he looked,
she was beautiful;
and she assumed, when he said
you have stirred The Forever in me,
it was real.
The last time she saw him --
standing as always on the precarious porch,
the wood distorting
more than she'd noticed before, he said
I'm not good at this,
and switched the light on
and off because he liked to watch the moths
fly towards him
as if he were the moon.
life after death
She says "let's beat the sun
tomorrow, run up bluebell hill
and poke out our tongues
at the lagging light."
[an early December morning
and footprints in frost
lead to two girls
wrapped in scarves and hats
and gloves]
I say "maybe when we're gone
it's only just begun,"
and wrap my arms in sisterly love
as the sun melts
away any proof that we had won.
Family Recipe
I carry this bag of bones
to where we'll sit and reminisce
by a grave stone.
In the kitchen she stands all hips
that span the width of heat, and skin
that pillows over apron strings,
to stir her spells.
I am allowed to watch,
perched on the stool, dragged
in from the living room,
as she concocts
three meals a day. And still
I am no cook, but understand
her charms were meant as love,
as if not fed,
we would wither to husks,
fly off with the first gust of wind.
|
