Body Language

You're the kind of entity who i would allow to break my bones, just in exchange for a cold night beneath your blue-cotton sheets; your face burried in my chest so you can hear the way my heart stumbles over the thought of your hands. I would trust you to heal my bones with your tongue; sealing then shut  and coaxing them back into a place 'beneath' my flesh.
  And like words coming from a candybox you'd whisper something like burning dragonflies back and forth between my wrists,
 "s h e   i s   a n   e x p o s e d   r i b c a g e"..       We'd speak in poetry; eloquence falling from our lips and shattering on the linoleum floor, refracting reality and the grey matter that floats between the lines. Words tip over out of our mouths like dead birds forming a grave, but we use ink instead of dust. And our corpses are robbed everyday, their guts in the greedy hands of a reader who wants to know everything.
  Only we the poet are omniscient, carressing the stars for the profound silence and discovering their wings in the palms  of our paper hands.

Take me as the silent child. Pale and cold.







9/11/10