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Literature Text
I’m going to tell you a lie:
I can’t live without you
-
you deathgrip to these placid waters
while I contemplate
the nuance of ‘we’
I’ve dreamt of raging rivers and sonorous seas
that low whale-chested bellow
glaciers tipped on edge
I’ve made love to the open ocean
salt spray in my face
deep creatures trawling below
I’ve beached myself on you
and now I’m finished sunning
you knew this whole time
I was a wild thing
-
I’m going to tell you the truth:
I love you
but not the way you want me to
I can’t live without you
-
you deathgrip to these placid waters
while I contemplate
the nuance of ‘we’
I’ve dreamt of raging rivers and sonorous seas
that low whale-chested bellow
glaciers tipped on edge
I’ve made love to the open ocean
salt spray in my face
deep creatures trawling below
I’ve beached myself on you
and now I’m finished sunning
you knew this whole time
I was a wild thing
-
I’m going to tell you the truth:
I love you
but not the way you want me to
Literature
Euphrosyne
dawn.
legs splash from milky sheets.
she rises from the bed like a wave
and crests, just before bare feet touch wood
and fog crawls across the mirror.
midmorning.
footsteps leave damp prints on the floor.
she sings in muted tendrils that float through
hollow rooms.
the sun dries her hair with copper fingers.
noon.
the shadows bunch beneath her feet
and she tosses them across the sky-
painting clouds over the staring sun.
mile-long legs stretch across the world
and she
makes love to the hand-me-down earth.
afternoon.
her quickened breath becomes the wind
and sails ships across the seven seas.
dusk.
when the sun grows w
Literature
a ribcage drenched in dust
i have your ribcage, you said.
what should i put in it?
i told you i'd always wanted a fire,
the kind that would fill my eyes with starlight
and pump my blood full of passion, but
you're made of wildflowers, you said.
a fire would burn you to ash.
you wanted to fill my chest with
the sound of a train, whistling
far away in the night;
with the sound of rain smacking leaves;
with the sound the wind makes
when it seems like it's trying to speak
and you wanted to throw in the
smell of midnight in august
and the feeling of sand being
sucked out from under your feet
when the ocean inhales,
and the strange little moment of
bitter
Literature
Fifty
Please understand: I do not want
to want this (you).
I realized at poem nineteen-of-fifty:
You (college-borne) are a new you,
I (weaponized) am a new me,
and the new me still wants the new you.
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4.3
Day 3 of gliitchmonth and NaPoWriMo
Prompt: casketgrasp
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Comments9
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I appreciate the ocean imagery and how it permeates the entire piece. It seems like an apt comparison when we take the all-consuming, wild nature of love into account, you know? "I’ve beached myself on you" struck me especially because the notion of the persona being as helpless and vulnerable as a beached whale is just heartbreaking.
