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werewolf
|
her hair,
fragile twine roots,
quills of a crow,
rolls between your fingers,
like splinters,
through your hands like
uncastled wet sand.
her eyes, cracked and moving stone-
you sacrifice
your virgin words,
no other words will do,
to some volcano that births those eyes.
her face when it sleeps,
is frightening in its peace,
it does not recognize you,
it holds a joy that is not love,
or consolation, or surprise.
her lips smirk upon yours,
each of her breaths seem a thick
and infinite set,
like the essays yet to be written
on anna karenina.
she touches your hand,
and you remember a time you felt like this before:
you were a child,
you were making games
at a family party,
you were picked up,
whisked away by a friendly aunt,
who held you loosely
so that your legs dangled
in the loop of her sun dappled arms
you were placed on the shoulders of an older cousin,
you were told you were going somewhere important.
the sky for a moment froze in its blueness,
you could not distinguish
the trees tops from their bottoms,
you were spinning,
people were laughing,
birthday cakes and balloons,
and the sky
like a cloudy untouched soil.
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031119
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