The morning is muddy when I take it from the clothesline.
The blue colour at the corner of my vision, is that it? The ‘it’ slowly grows large becomes him, tall in blue slacks – the blue of my dreams that he cannot fathom. And is it over, after the singular contact of eyes near the flight of stairs, where singular means one of its kind.
There are people in every grain of sand, in each cell of memory, walking paths that take them away from me.
My heart sits on a blade of grass like a cricket, that you want to possess. A ray of light snaps the insect, holds it so you see you cannot touch it.
Love is that.
Under the branches of crape myrtle I spread a carpet,
lavender flowers on my crumpled stole bloomed when I was kissed the first time.
I turned away,
his lips brushed my cheeks and his fingers clasped me like a man
Amethyst was the colour I remember of the evening thick with
nodules of mulberries. The touch,
softness of the skin was the radiant light that spun patterns blinding,
as jasmine flowers drowned me in its raunchy pungency. Just for the flowers
I remember the evening,
not for the kiss
that did not gather the moon beams that was so abundant that night, it didn’t even
gather the pale greenness from the stalks of flowers crushed beneath us.
(Written to the prompt from We Write Poems)
The man next door
presses his finger on the wall
at the point
where my spine furrows at the back of neck.
There is no place other than inside,
the word outside ceases to be you(rs).
Take a broom
clear the rubble in the hollow of silence;
collect the pixels that vision breaks into –
squares of purple of morning glory.
The cadence of touch,
dips and highs as words rasp in the throat:
wisps of memory like snail’s trail on laterite steps
disappearing before the creature has moved its bulk.
Search for the story where it does not exist –
in the present tense,
in the page not book marked,
on a leaf warmed by flutter of butterfly wings.
The voice a cacophony, is indecipherable.
Thread through it gently
as when you
remove ticks from your pet’s body,
the way you move crystal prayer beads
between thumb and index finger.
I let myself into the house,
I carry his keys in my bag;
but I am not the one entering the house,
it’s always someone else:
a story that mind tells my body –
I can’t take a kiss anymore,
palpitation can still my heart
when he gathers me in his arms.
The hibiscus does not stain my eyes red –
the colour that my irises hold for real;
he is not real
though I see him everyday
at the edge of bed, smell of his cigarette
real, smell of his deodorant real.
(Written to the prompt from We Write Poems. When you can’t invite him into your life, you become someone else and start living with him here.)
Pollen dust spills
on the petals
that only I see,
not even the bee;
the silver liquid of moon
fills the crates
in my neck,
like a lover’s caresses.
His hands probe
pool and flow over;
but dry today,
frustrated he hurts –
deeper than skin cannot be love.
on the way to the beach
in thick knots of branches
that did not know
where they went
in green mirror
of humidity, precipitation.
That was his last breath,
it hung there
above his open mouth,
half closed eyes;
my image locked
in his cornea the last time.
Do I stay still
so that he does not lose me?
A thought lost
like paper swept under table,
an unuttered word
fills space between us,
an imaginary kiss –
lips remain pursed,
of salt on skin denied.
In the pinkness
the petals breathe
flow as blood
to mist the sky.
is spectrum of colors
that defines emptiness.
The thought moves
the mind, with it moves
Between your words
space – you do not own it,
not like you own a house.
What you own,
without them you can exist.