| Chill
Woman heaves
deep breaths for the womblight;
we make our own fires, here. We heat
rooms, houses, beds. We
question the nature of such things: moisture in
all forms; how water will facilitate the warmth.
Does she still glow? Hot like a tongue.
And these are the blunt objects:
skin, its tissue, the whisper of it.
I have watched cold hands pen loveletters
at midnight, four am. Forgive: backbone
will slant and deform. Our heat will not allow
anything but mercy. Hunchbacks. Every one.
meaning, misplacement
I:
Degradation:
he sat in the back
with
his head slumped, cup
in hand,
and as he would
vomit,
I would reassure him that he was beautiful.
If he didn’t prefer penis to vagina, I would have never kissed
him.
II:
Ice slept down pathways to my father,
to the front door, his wife and her scorn.
And my feet
were not sure enough
to do anything
but turn.
III:
Rounded as an abdomen carrying child;
this table. Our hands keep us
from ever loving
with their false warmth.
He passes over me
with a wink, so we can both pretend
to know the other.
IV:
This bed and
I
perform dry hump in my slumber;
I shear at my sheets with bitten nails,
throw pillows at the ground, curl around
the dog huddling into me for safety
from
me.
Copyright © 2004 sarah allard. ALL RIGHTS
RESERVED.
Top
of Page |
