Poem: “Book Shopping”

Photo Credit: Matt Wunderle, Creative Commons
Photo Credit: Matt Wunderle, Creative Commons

 

something about the idea of swimming
in the hidden green pond
and the frogs
singing in choirs while we
ripple, in motion
slow, words that cannot meet,
a touch eternal, a kiss
in time. I thumbed

and massaged the smooth pages, skin
of carbon cheeks, soft as the tissue
you use to dab
your November-reddened nose.
We met

like rain under a praying palm
tree, we found each other’s page
and whispered above the pounding pour
of hot rain, whispered warm
breeze into a purple ear
as a buzzing bumble of the bees stir in our knuckles
and eyelids

of a flicker
in a film
reel

Now alone.
A spine.

Are you there? Breathe
with our song. It dips
my forehead in couches
and the taste of cinnamon
no longer sits
on my quivering tongue, it enjoyed
every morsel.

For hours will pass
beneath a shattered memory
silent clock
that chimed as the mortars came
and stole away
the phonograph
in 1943
from that German
officer, the one who loved
your mother, and gave
her edelweiss, the one
she loved before music,
chimes, the stagger
of cheeks that meet,
the taste.

Fresh picked
pages, ripely harvested
carpet, I breathe
with the beans
ever-roasted. Appalachian smoke
billows from pots
in waterfall horizons, I’ll swim
in you
after early June in the white
schoolhouse, leaving me

to paint the white
from your lips, the chilling opal
from your neck, to let you lay awake once
more, the whisper of four
feet twisting, no walking
on beaches or the crunch
of sand in ankle
twists, no paths carved
up rocky slopes that lead
to peace, no running away,
no kings captured
suitors smothered, no new grudge ended,
no worthy band of villains, told
just one more time, around
a bush that burns heaven bright, the ending

clearly seen, a sacrifice unneeded
except by daily boredom, this waste
of good romance,
breath with me, let us

flicker, let us ripple,
let us close,
or continue
not linger,
not pause.

A kiss eternal,
a touch in time.

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