it is an art-
to know exactly when to turn a rib
and when to grow out from one
despite the bronzing of skin
like honey glaze which appears
to trickle down from the centuries
as forsaking-mud-rain.
that painting; speckled faces
make us all unnaturally beautiful.
hairless, pale-we once felt
our ribs crushed like a mother
elephant's bones still acting
as a foundation for the burden
that rises up and out just above
the flat of our bellies.
heaving and busting out.
it is an art
to balance this juxtaposition
of feminine intimidation--
to be smaller, and yet,
still larger than you.
we rail against it
but still wish to be appealing.
but then the liberation--
to be unappealing--
if all of us,
like our strands of hair,
brought the effortless pulling back of our
collective, feathered mask.
we would be but sunken eyes without shadow
and hairy faces without blades.
Mais, Oui. we are the fairer sex.
out-looked, out-done, out-been,
out of being-have we lost it?
or do we transcend it?
I am Love-handled.
I am not pale
I am not hairless
and still I seduce.
it is an art.
it is a victory of one.
Sunday, February 27, 2011
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
Reach for the clouds. . .
Tickle your toes. . .
-
At age 25 for Sir John Donne Down went San Felipe. Crimson and pale, rippling, clinging to it's mist. Oh, how that flagship hurled itsel...
-
in August for John Keats I didn't die unrequited. I took a wife in August. My wife was wearing silky white shoulders holding out her bon...
-
I thought it would be fitting to do an original of mine, but one of it's earlier drafts. I have recently reworked this poem so it includ...
-
The Anchor for Joel When love embarks, with its generating propellers slicing through the interminable oceans of imperfection that are, for ...
-
Exhibit A: When this was first documented, I was more flattering of him than I should of been, but it was another reminder of that star-spe...
-
The Opera The eyes of the firing-squad are aimed with lashed cross-hairs for now we, the chorus, all look like oiled up black ducks in a ro...
-
There are holes in these walls and someone is pounding away making new ones. A little girl with a bell hammer smack smack smack She only ban...
-
Unsolicited. Little face, oh little face, once again. We did not lean in close enough to see the wrinkles and gray hairs, so little face, we...
-
the top of today's to do list: figuring out why I became a poet. it was wheeling in my head while i drove to work this morning. less whe...
-
After dark. for Joel Heartily bolstered with pancakes and the soft innards of oranges, We were rolling around in ivory fields of Egyptian c...
No comments:
Post a Comment