On the porch, with grooves of woven twine
embedded into the underbelly of my thighs,
I sit and listen intently for you. My ears perked,
with unruly fire-streaked hair tucked behind them,
infinite strands poking out bushily. I would rather
you be candid than burdened by invisibility,
yet I have known of your presence to be more
than that of an apparition. In listening,
I hear homely whistles calling the dogs
into suburban homes, motorcycles carelessly
hovering above the pavement, and you,
dear creature, fated girl, unburied name,
I know you. In knowing you, I feel a touch
upon my cheek, so graceful even in the
awkwardness of unknown dimensional planes.
On my skin, you bless me with a gravesite
of thoughts, visions, lullabies, nostalgia, and newness.
As if you are present, I lean in with full faith
to meet plushness, in belief there would be lips to kiss,
yet I am met with loss. A figment of a breath
more silent than the numbing grief of a lover’s shadow.
I pray, even godless I pray, I pray for your return,
and our rejoicing to be forevermore. For but a moment
with you on the porch, to allow my calloused bedrock
fingertips to be softened by your healing brown hair.
Comments
There's a gravity to this piece, a weight to its specific kind of ache. I actually read it wrong at first, read it as if your speaker's companion were right there, and I had wanted to say that that idea that someone can be absent from you, can have gone away and left, maybe forever, while sitting right there in front of you, should be given its own word in the English language. That wasn't your intention, I realized after a reread (their friend or lover was never really there), but I think that's almost inconsequential sometimes when that happens -- because as always, your poetry did exactly what poetry should: It made me, the reader, make my own associations, and feel, and feel hard.
Log in or register to post comments.