Saturday, September 12, 2020

Unpierced



Unpierced  


and her ears, 

not having known or been

broken through to post the simple

perch of pearls, listen at every lift of her

head.  Lately, though only seeing: trees, some,

and today one broken cumulus

as like this pine's a palm and fingers

to card flax or wool.  Or

maybe the day is in her skin

and its temp

                    -er

                        -at

                            -ure

is what she might imagine

she sees, is what she might like to

wear across her danced out

thighs tight as sailcloth in the break

                                                    ----er

and it is this wind that will

take her to try to

tame her

and rope her

knowing only

one or two  (but perfect

and thorough) adamant knots.  And so

she can go off sailing

like a man

or like men

who bluff their way forward

oblivious of the oily swirls

    to starboard

    to port

            lost all along

            edges as murked like foggy bogs

like the discrete peeking free 

of crepuscular need.  And yet,

        and still: trees

                  lately some the likes she's begun

                    touching and taking on

                    the stain and sticky pitch of

                    to her lips

                            to the tip

                                of her tongue

and every strip viscous and acidic...

the pinch is thick.  She's able

to fingerprint every

place she goes, every place, unto it all:

upper lip, earlobe, throat, 

even beneath the shell

of the necklace

left loose and upturned

at the edge of her sleep

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Just So

Just So     Of course I knew those leaves were birds.                                       Christian Wiman                     ...