Wednesday, April 15, 2009

i, 2, wrote a poem

How many of us drift to thoughts of lovers last,
of men we've crossed and spells we've cast,
to mourn the touch of nights long passed.
Years of feast give way to shallow fast.

My mind returns to one brief treat:
Your hands in mine; the world at our feet.

"It's hot," you said, kicking away the sheet.

The tighter I held, the faster we turned
from a peaceful sky to an ocean churned

that pushed me out by the force of it.


pasadoughnuts said...

ur such an amazing writer. i wish u wrote more.

Athena said...

thanks dude. the love is requited.

here is a poem i have unearthed from deep within my computer. i wrote it shortly after falling in love in the year 1999.


We faded so slowly I didn't know
we had left, until I looked
and we disappeared and
from the sky the city stretches out
to a very definite edge
with a light grey slashed with pink
afloat above and
that same slate below and it
looks as if the world is flat
after all
the way it sits, meditatively,
without support.

I wander out the plane window
and slip back between the sheets with you
my arm curled delicately tight
around your broad ribcage,
an apple within my palm
your warmth seeps through to mine
they intermingle, indistinctly,
where you end
I've already begun.

but I listened to the train sing
its wet fingers on the lip of crystal
I counted those three hundred forty-two
steps we took from the bottom to the top
and all the while it seemed
you carried me (I just bitched about my shoes)
and where ever we went, I felt
your eyes your lips your hands and arms
draped carefully about me like
a golden picture frame
and me, a captured moment.

Athena said...

and this is a poem i wrote when i was falling out of love in the year 2003.

my bruises are beginning to brown
from the purple you once colored me;
my eyes are still black. break those rocks;
break me with the hammer you said killed the ivy
strangling that tree. i suffocate, immersed in the sweet
sweat; fresh rinse only to come, to come over me.
the stuffy scent of a recent bath stayed no secret to my pry
and you thought those tears i gave you sprang
from some hidden well, for your eyes only.
had i mentioned the rope, meant to secure your upset disposition,
you might have concluded i referred to a fleeting game of trust.

but i live here now, where the sparkles in the road
are fireflies speaking sometimes simultaneously
and not the street lamps reflected from pavement.
i live here now, where i meet the dawn at the beginning of my days
with the flush pinks and baby room purples rather than
at the end of my night with smudged mascara and fucked up hair.
i live here, where the grass is blue and the pace is easy and where
my mind no longer whirs and clicks but meanders down
the cobbled streets and lush summer tree lined paths.

silence. lopped, lingering statements of vague desire,
wet after first fall shower. you will haunt me.
you haunt me now, but soon you will join the ongoing party
in the backroom of my brain where my near-misses at love
make a ruckus. there will be a day while i blankly browse
the aisle of some generic grocery store that your scent
will overwhelm me and i will break into a heap of tears on
the fluorescent lit linoleum floor. i will lie awake
with my eyes closed and pretend your broad body is pushed
into every nook of my own. your warmth will seep through to mine,
in your absence; your chest will rise and fall in my half-empty bed.

are you thinking of me, in this room with no light? madly
humming to the midnight distress of open windows. the
distant traffic. do you remember how much i cried, measured
in pitchers and barrels, curled into the wall. do you feel
the cracking of my ribcage in the effort to love you? the
fracturing of my teeth as my jaw sets. or is it just me,
in this room with no light, counting the fissures breaking my body to dust.