love

NaPoWriMo Day 25: Don’t Write Poems for Me

Don’t Write Poems for Me

 

I could love a boy with scars.

I could kiss the foreheads of ash-skinned demons,

caress the raised tissue of too many deaths,

and yes, I could

love a boy with scars.

 

I could love a boy for his poems.

I could make love to a boy with words

alone, or allow my hand to find his

sure as ink to paper, and yes—

oh how could I not love a boy for his poems?

 

I could love a boy who isn’t mine,

and I could love a boy as only friends

and I could find new definitions for us

but I cannot straddle this chasm

alone, not now that I know.

 

I could love a boy with scars. I could

love a boy for his poems. I could love a boy

who isn’t mine. (I could keep my hands

to myself). I cannot put my love,

this birth-blind puppy, back in the box

 

now that I know he wants to kiss me.

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NaPoWriMo Day 11: Wine Red

Wine Red

I am traditional, in these few small things.

Shove the dry, split logs

in the wood burning stove

and wait for the amber burn,

the smoldering embers,

to pour an after dinner glass,

curled on the rug.

 

Red on red on red, the red of wine

staining lips and teeth

in the red curl of a smile,

the deep deep red, translucent,

of a spicy, dry, currant wine

with the red of fire light

glinting through. Red on red on red,

a promise of heat and rapture

on my skin and in the pit of my stomach.

 

Red on red on red.

NaPoWriMo Day 3: Charm Against Love

Charm Against Love

Into the soil press seeds.

Alone, gather mint and rosemary,

and harvest coffee beans

to ward off sleep and dreams.

Cook dinner out of the herbs.

Don’t save the magic for him, or her.

Damiana for anxiety,

smoked or soaked into a tea,

rays of sunshine in a vial

to hold back the bitter bile.

Weave wild flowers at close of day

to keep the chest beast safe at bay.