Posts Tagged ‘body’

of when your eyes connect with another’s

and heat jumps through your body

and you want to know them,

and you want them to know you;

you want them to want

to understand

like you want to

understand

them.

My eyes are dry.

My lungs feel like wool sweaters

rolled and stuffed inside me.

Spine is slowly turning into the St. Louis Arch.

Bones stiff as flint.

Muscles like ink pens, exuding

pain from the inside, out.

I’m turning into cardboard.

I’ll be arthritic

before I’m twenty.

It’s with everyone.

It’s worse with you.

 

Some disconnect between

brain and tongue and larynx,

syllables stack onto each other,

come out as just sounds.

 

There are little to no words

in my brain, blackness is it.

Being near you short circuits my speech.

 

I’m always searching for an answer

or reply with strangers.

You’re not a stranger,

you just make me feel strange.

 

I can’t think of anything to say,

though I want to be witty,

I want to sound smart.

 

My mouths opens and closes

like I’m imitating a fish. I turn red.

 

It’s with everyone.

It’s the worst with you.

Where once was sighing-

the great cave opening

to a three-quarter moon;

white stalactites and stalagmites

shaped like gravestones;

a pink worm

pressed to the cave floor,

hiding its red underbelly;

air escaping in a hollow hiss-

now

the dark round emptiness of

it remains, and

the cave walls are close

but not touching,

and there is

no movement.

Something gray and infectious

has fallen into human throats.

 

Caught by veins,

those catcher’s mitts, those tiny roots,

 

and carried around

like dandruff.

 

Sir, your eyes are bloodshot!

Sir, you’re retching like a hurricane!

 

Sir! The sun’s been stopped

in the sky!

 

The clouds are hoarding

its light!

 

What a meteoric fall

man’s dug himself into.

 

Whether he’ll live to see

if the sun scorches through

 

those bandages of clouds is another thing.

For now,

 

only the willow’s tendrils move-

the trunk, a headstone.

No less an organ

than the cardiac muscle

and sinew

of a regular human heart.

This heart dreamt.

It dreamt of love

in two hands, clasped;

in four eyes, twinkling;

in lips and words, whispered

and shouted,

and gestures and laughter

and memories

that have yet to be made.

Some of these dreams

turned into wishes,

and the wishes became so strong

they turned into prayers-

much like a chick

turns into a fledgling,

than spreads its wings

and flies.

The heart was shattered

by promises

that held as much weight

as stardust,

sweet words

that disguised the taste of cyanide,

and its own dreams

which it believed too much in

and had its natural rhythm disrupted by.

The shattered fragments

of the glass heart

belong to me.

They dig into my ribs

and say don’t believe

too strong

in dreams.

Dark fields

of coppery wires,

thin, curled, and soft as bedding in a cradle.

Mere glimpses

of patterned, colored cloth.

Stretches of cream

creating uniformity.

 

A red frog leaps in my belly.

Linen wash cloths dipped in warm water are pressed,

delicately, against my cheeks,

my neck.

The frog is kicking,

reaching for his wife

who is also jumping wildly,

pounding against my ribs.

 

I turn away

to simply breathe

and cool the frogs,

pull away from the linen.

 

I swallow,

then take the next step

toward you.

So, this is how you make my heart go-

a nonstop drum. Knots in my stomach

and blood rising to color my face.

At times it seemed like we were

the only people in the room,

and I smiled.

I smiled at the little things you did,

whether you noticed them or not;

I smiled out of nerves

because you were so calm, and I was not;

I smiled like a fool

because we talked, and you listened.

This is a new experience for me-

not the bundle of nerves under my ribs,

to which you give an electric shock;

not the reddening of my face,

but the happiness from something so simple

and how I don’t mind these feelings

and I surprise myself

by how much I want them to stay.

It’s strange to think

about what connections we have forged,

conversations forming details like pearls-

your personality, my personality-

and yet our faces and our bodies are 

only vague memories,

more than shadows but

less than silhouettes.

I speak to you

and you rekindle an old

schoolboy joy, a feathery giddiness

in me.

It’s a strange thing…

perhaps when we meet the old bird

will finally settle down and hum, content,

in my chest. Or else

a glimmer of recognition

will set its plumage ablaze,

my flesh will burn dark pink,

my breath will come in smoke;

then you’ll turn away in fear,

or douse me to pale, regular color,

and extinguish the terror of the bird 

with the waters of your eyes. 

The New Year is but an hour away.

Minutes separate myself

from a new sun- that new jewel

set into its old, black, stone broach-

and my changing life.

 

I have yet to empty my lungs

of old breath.

Have yet to empty my mind

of new doubts,

the kind that are common this time of year.

I have yet to purge my body

of sins well aged, like fine wine

(they lingered even on Christmas Day).

 

And so the clock and calendar eye me

with regret. And I sigh,

slump into the sofa,

play with my old thumbs,

and smile in spit of the fact

that what’s to come

is as unknown to me

as the source of this burgeoning sense of hope.