it is not a tickle but...
It is not a tickle but a fluttering of air
skirting the upraised flesh of my arms.
It is not a sigh but the sway of the air
swirling in the lip of my ear.
They are seconds trapped in a nest of space
so secure in memory, my body experiences it
like a birth
And is reborn
Again and again.
Again and again.
Blush
this is the part of the movie
when you hide behind the crocheted afghan
and peek between the holes at the full tv screen
blushing.
don't watch me blush.
this is a private moment between the screen and me.
if i show you my teeth,
the spit between the corners of my lips,
i may sink in the cushions
and pray you will capture me
in a comfort just as blushing to feel
as it is to wait...for.
Berlin in June
Berlin in JuneI fear every relationship
for the end it could possibly become.
For the heaving at night
alone
just a wet pillow and sticky sheets,
and lungs
sore from the gasping.
And a body—crying for arms
to wrap it up in warmth,
and lips…
lips pressing into a thin, white line,
knowing that one day
they may mutter again
the words the heart feels
lying cold now—
swollen— hard—
in the chest—wishing, like so many times before
to never love again
and to love again
quickly.
06/2001
