these kids cluster
and clatter in a swarm
we saw them pouring in to the harbor
like warmed up molasses
slowly
in the heat
boiling up to a head –
till the whole lot of them
burst
exploded in waves
foaming over the street
except one
dropped to the ground,
punctured,
deflated.
pick pick
scratch scratch
one little bit
surrenders to the attack
chips off
falls to the way
side
chip chip
pick pick
another piece deeper held
flakes off
regretfully,
painfully
blood bubbles to the surface
cooling
immediately.
forgetting why but
bleeding
out.
HER
how can skin
lack in color so quickly
draining from a newborn pink
to ashen grey
how can skin
keep these insides
from exploding out
from the news of skin
lacking in pulse,
blood slowed to a pause
how your
skin
feels
nothing
like
how her skin feels now
your hands are rough
callused, vaguely
consoling
pulsing,
HIM
how she
grows so small before me
– oh
small fingers
so deathly still –
I need to solve it.
I need to fix it.
I reach out to grab her:
“it’s not your fault
it’s not your fault”
over again
stroking the thin
taut
skin of her hands.
the dark place lurks close
behind — in front — it aims to
catch me in its jaws.
naked vunerability
is the look of my hands
as they smile down your back
how every massage
is a breeze
that chills skin in awakening
how every glimpse
out the window. a rush
how your eyes
take me in
like my skin melts away
like my skin bursts away
scrub
and bubbles
burn my
nose
act of
cleaning
much like how
this is
girl determined
to forget.
sorry i missed yesterday! scored a last minute front row ticket to STP at the outdoor pavilion here in town! lovely lovely fun rock n roll good times… even if Weiland did forget a couple of words…. still love it. in honor, check this one out:
Steam Like Weiland
http://presssend.blogspot.com/2010/04/steam-like-weiland.html
lush green field
on this Sunday
people threaded flowers
into dirt like
needlepoint,
moved slowly, carefully,
faint to leave but
some how
believing in
their grand design
though they themselves
can’t see it.
wide-eyed wine glass
sees a pair of lips pursed
coming at it —
tossed back, wine glass
teeters then straightens
its dress; one shaken stem
smoothing tousled hair.
Poetry by JC Snyder 