Monday, August 15, 2011

secrets

our silence comes easy
and there is much to it
the commingling of our fingers
and the swapping of palm oils
and the nimble saltation of fingertips
it says so much.
and yet you stare at my neck
and say that my throat is the
home of a chorus of birds
and such harmonies never allow
for secrets.
Posted by at
Labels:

5 comments:

  1. UnknownAugust 15, 2011 at 11:48 AM

    This is gorgeous - so sensual and still at the same time. Love it.

    ReplyDelete
  2. AnonymousAugust 16, 2011 at 9:29 AM

    From tactile to the abstract; what a wonderful relationship.

    ReplyDelete
  3. bttrflyscarAugust 16, 2011 at 1:22 PM

    thanks! ;)

    ReplyDelete
  4. AnonymousAugust 16, 2011 at 3:00 PM

    What did he mean by that? (kidding) Lovely writing! I enjoyed this one very much.

    Here's my offering for Potluck 48: http://charleslmashburn.wordpress.com/2011/08/14/the-lake/

    ReplyDelete
  5. Maxwell Mead Williams Robinson BarryAugust 17, 2011 at 9:44 AM

    smart one.
    love the message behind.

    ReplyDelete

Subscribe to: Post Comments (Atom)

Reach for the clouds. . .

Tickle your toes. . .

  • idle
    I sing a soft prayer to my hands -and I wait for them to do something.
  • Powder Room
    The one downstairs. adjacent to the hall closet, but with an achingly tiny window. the walls were "powder" blue the towels had no ...
  • Day 25
    Dick for Sylvia Plath Some will read our story, and will not understand, why I left you, so selfishly At your most uncomfortable. I really w...
  • Labyrinth of Memory
    I know now. After the 17th time I've been through here. that I was always lost and always beautiful. My true reflection was always hidde...
  • On being a woman
    I They blame the headaches on hair pulled too tight They blame the heartaches on the six hour flight But me- with scraped knees I know the t...
  • upon waking
    all is up. a dreamy boy fills your legs with such a torso- he acts like your tongue is hard candy- and the crust in your eyes is cinnamon.
  • Parents
    I feel as if I was only given one choice. I could be exactly like him, as genetics dictated or just like her a person I absolutely hated. We...
  • Memoir of a Memoir: Week 4
    Though it hasn't been months since I have written and attempted edits within my memoir, it has been quite some time since I have reflect...
  • small stone #7
    strange tree, your flowers look like badminton birdies.
  • Vermilion
    for Nathan I once opened my arms wide exposing what was inside a brilliant cascading scarlet thread that was pulled out from my heart and he...

Poets United Contributor