Baobabs entwined from his eyes
and bent down like a wooden staircase.
Her body was his threshold,
marbled and angular crows for bones.
And she was a metaphor for him:
the flush of cheeks and
hardening of bone;
what a vernal equinox can do to a cherry tree.
But now her skin was a series of creases in time,
browned at the edges like bark and books.
Closing her eyes, she would forget his shade,
the taste of a man's shoulder,
and the smell of rice tea steaming from iron kettle.
As hymns blushed from
the timber knots pulled tautly in his mouth,
his roots curled over her
and fed her to the cardinals in the spring.
Comments
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this is so very well written, there is an ease to the words that only can come from writing much and well for a long time. nice.
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Thank you for the comment - I seem to be struggling with something in linguistics these days, but I just can't quite settle it out. Time will remind the writer, I suppose. Thanks again.
jen
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I enjoyed this. A poem for even the non-poets
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