Summer came, and I
I rode my dapple gray across the market lot
Past a woman in a sundress,
Loading an SUV with more shit than the Vikings ever carried off from flaming England.
She put her hand to her mouth when she saw me.
She stood between me and her child,
Between calm sanity and a wandering, moaning spirit.
I am not much to look at.
Dried blood on my cheek serves as blush.
My scent is natural.
I have come across deserts and fever-borders.
There is a cafe near where I am--
I remember it.
A girl must declare herself butch or femme, and I am neither.
I am the crimson rose, fresh from the rain.
I am the bone hammer,
And also the drum.
I have been shattered, wounded,
Set on fire.
I burn still.
Is there an opium for this kind of ache?
Is there a stall for my horse?
A bed for me?
Could there ever be sandalwood, patchouli,
All the cheap, perfect aromas of dollar-store serenity?
Could there be
Your arms, bare, except for your silver serpent cuffs?
Your breasts, that my cheek has dreamed of?
Could your thigh between mine
Split me softly, like a river deep and sweet?
And so I traveled across the dust and ruin
I lied before, when I said I hardly cared--
I care for these:
Your heart beat.
I care, and I hope that all that I have done and not done,
All the places that I have been or left behind me,
Have made me good enough
To say it.
for Monday Melting #21
picture: Rhona Mitre