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| looking West down the Poestenkill East of the Hudson |
on the linoleum, under yellow lighting
there are women in my soul kitchen
each and every night
amphora pouring
coats and marinades desires spices
seasoning by morning glaze drying
sugar crystal limbs, climbing
more amore a more, the lore
reaching glory
in a taste
a caught something
a moment beyond
any reason
not to eat
anything
they brought
any of them
any herald under mouth
any angel
scented with
a sometime
now ...
she wore herself
a story
a womb
wings
finger clasps
dancing midriffs
bells tells delves
toys on shelves
said we were elves
once, story holders
magic carpet cleaners
and when wielding power truly
we were not often
a fast blow against I
but rather 'twas
our incessant will
our need
to bleed
names
and bones
chains
and tones that
we sing I and I
Bob and
Jacob Marley
tides, ladders
and letters
in the rain ...
I never understood the endings of poems
as much as I understood not knowing
was the purest release I would ever know ...
it's a whispered wet
from here on out
I get it
no shouting
at the streetlamps
alone at night
at the end of this poem ...
EJR ©
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