Tuesday, April 29, 2008

Morning Song

There is a rose on the table

The bedsheets warmed from a sunny window

I lay with one knee raised

My skin is lonely

That golden-handled door we taught to open

(while we were kissing, Love,

while your thigh won the wet from me)

Has taught itself to close.

A bird sings in the garden

He knows nothing

Or everything

He sings like a perfect fool

For me.

There is a rose on the table

The bedsheets warmed from a sunny window

My breasts are lonely

My hands are lost children

Far from home

I lay on my back, as if you might rejoin me;

I study the stucco walls and the ceiling,

Here in this lonely warm bed

Near my lovely rose,

That traitor door,

And the singing of that lonesome





Cynthia said...

This poem of yours Shay is so
beautifully melancholy, LOVE!
The repetition lends to the longing
emotions, delicately written.

Fireblossom said...

Thank you, Cynthia. I was listening to Luz Casal one night, and I put "Piensa En Mi" on repeat play and wrote both this poem and "Maricela Mexicana." Yes, there was a real Maricela. Sigh.

Karin Kallmaker said...

Hi Shay - I haven't much time to read, but your poetry is evocative and thoughtful and yet quick, like a needle, if that makes sense. Thank you for sharing it.

Fireblossom said...

Ok, I'm officially starstruck! Thank you for coming by and commenting!

Your novella "A Fish Out Of Water" is the BEST.

Shrinky said...

"Idiot Bird" - Exactly as I feel. So loved this. Wish I could express myself the way you do. Please chase these poems of yours to an agent. Shay, they will be gobbled up.

Anonymous said...

"My skin is lonely"

"while your thigh won the wet from me"

"He knows nothing
Or everything ... that lonesome idiot bird"