i roll you slowly, forth and back
between my hands, learning the
secret ways of your weight.
if i shift you at the right pace
you seem to be
less weight;
more vapor.
i inhale you,
as if citrus pustules split,
i can taste you in the air.
ruby Sunkist mist.
skin so vast when close.
speckled with freckles,
pockmarked by pores.
you of such color and origin
that you should signify warmth,
but you are frost beneath the petal tips
of my bitten fingers.
skin like leather, who would guess
what sour wetness you keep inside
(acidic pulp!) you burn my tongue.
i open you up, with my teeth,
you pour forth, unleashed.
i can't quite say if this is
bitter or sweet, still, i continue to eat.
a cunning linguist,
a thirsty, reaching, leech.
What did you think
Comments
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It is to your credit that the popular people who back-slap all their mates in reciprocal echoes seem to be unaware of your obvious talent. Tara Wilson is a talented critic and poet here. To be able to write with such strength of vision and originality on such a paltry topic is in itself a huge tribute to your poetic powers and perspective. I am impressed. Tony
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well thank you. i'm glad you enjoyed it. and thanks for reading it too
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thanks Tara!
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wow...i really like this one.
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