She Won’t Know, #118

Ask, and I will tell you,
innocent companion
to my daily living,
sweet woman who saunters
awake through the debris
of my scarred, scared, sacred
heart. Ask, and I’ll attempt
to necklace together
a slew of words, some trite
reassuring mantra.

Someday a line of grunts
designed to resemble
or mirror or expand
upon the same silly
idea, that there exists
one voice in the chorus
of my life, soloist
who, despite the choir
of women, future, past

and present who stream in
and between the movements
of life, past ventricles
like countless blood cells, red,
blue and white. Some I love,
for their accented breasts
or their pony tailed
hair, their jeans artfully
torn and scribbled upon,
the melancholy of their veins,

their void of oxygen,
who I think I can breathe
into and some whose rich
abundance so consumes me
that I would love to live
overgrown like an old
maple in their garden,
that these women, beside
you, will always be none
but a background, dual

dimensional cutout
or blended together
sea of leaves on oceans
of trees that mean nothing.
And out from this, separate
from this, you step forward
in your nude loveliness
or your soloist’s dress
carving you from the choir
of the forest, to sing

your sweet song. I become
your Adam, your madman,
your slave, your maestro who
would ignore the whole world
or build the grandest stage
for none more than to see
you smile, to furrow
your brow or to design
a new world order based
on you and your sweet form.

On an innocent day
I can say I love you,
and answer why, something
that hints at the softness
of your lips, how you rub,
with your eyes, my body,
or simply that you love
me. On another day,
all these words are matter
tossed into a black hole

and nothing will explain.
But I stumble out, up
to your edge, pay homage
for you to come and greet
me. And walk out you do,
graceful and tall and full
of yourself. I live to
fill you with a mirth arose
from none more than a whiff
of your reflection in

a mirror, to show you
what the world sees unstrained
through that personally
designed filter of each
negative comment spoke
to a young and undone
portrait, stung by the streaks
of paint undried and smeared
across her face and landscape
like unturned wood on the lathe.

I dance and hoot and joke
because our truest body
is the laugh of muscle
when we are lost from thought
and the mind, keen to keep
a hold of the old maps,
of the old roads subdued
and quieted, moments
we’ve lost our resistance.
I love you for your smile,

for the times you listen
and know enough to put
me in my place, raised up
when I feel like a slug
and cut down if I should
imagine myself king
and if, indeed, I am
an Attendant Lord,
it is so I may be
attendant to your soul,

to the highest spires
known and shown. It is just
because I have chosen
my favorite court, favorite
castle, queen I aspire
to be commissioned to,
and only to, working
for merely the pittance
of your tender kisses.

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Author:

A day is not done, until it's filled with words.

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