Sunday, June 5, 2011

last waking hours

A woman's stance
feet parted so
that like a breezy window
the mantle opened slightly
lets in curves of salty air-
but here there is no, in
simply out there peeks
a corner of skin revealed
and just above the navel
a ripened orange,
brown with sugar

A bend and twist
of a monarch's
A dart of fluttering,
the color the butterfly
melts to buttery
compassion and cream.
And around your
body it does

Lifted setting sun
before the
walk of that green
mile, a foreigner's
thirsty hands
are quenched
and a broken
mouth is mended.
a face falls
as eyes close
as whispers
like wind chill,

A heaving breathless favor
rests upon a body of
silken nurturing
pillows with a soft voice.
Diffusing the despair.
Of dying will
and tired eyes.

These are your
last waking hours.
open and entreating,
She will cushion
your terror.


  1. This poem has a dreamlike 'feel' to it. Beautiful words and flow.

  2. Somehow in this dream is a lurking nightmare that really only takes some kind of form in the last 4 lines! Fascinatingly disturbing!

  3. Yes, it does feel dream-like, then the sudden jab of the ending. Wow!

  4. Poems like this, my mind creates a scenario. I suppose it is my nature, to reach for conclusion, to want all the facts. I see a man condemned...and through the bars, the brief glimpse of a woman...her skin. The vision is powerful enough to buffer death. He spends his last hours in this conjugal visit with a mirage.

    I love it! Thank you.

  5. wow, talk about hitting the nail on the head.
    Thank YOU!


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