Friday, July 6, 2012

The Bathroom Mirror Can't Lie

[Based upon a vivid dream I had on a new medication, which needed to be expressed in full. It may not be great poem, but I need to flesh out what it means.]


The stormy knot in my belly
as your fingers made maps
of my land. Your touch 
the kind that made 
goosebumps a real occurrence.
My hip in your hand,
quivering. A man's grasp
I couldn't quick fathom.


Our mouths foamy with
toothpaste. The sink, 
still running its mouth.


And the only moment
in my exposed flesh
anyone would say,
I wouldn't mess with
your body,
wouldn't change it,
have nothing to say 
against it.


Except the
missing piece that made
the puzzle list left.


Your hands, voyaging ships
on the icy sea
came to rest on my bones,
curved wrong.


Adam's rib gone missing
from my own side,
my cage leaning
and sorry.


You said,
you're uneven.


I already knew,
some cosmic fate locked in
the physical as you touch 
my broken parts.
I am not good enough
in this way,
but you let
your hands linger anyway.


The sin lingers longer
than even phantom limbs 
can last. You are
the hospital bed to 
my amputation


as you curl into 
the big spoon
to my 
tarnished 
ice tea spoon.



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