Tuesday, January 3, 2017

(T)






he says there is a small light in my eyes 
where he can trace my happy childhood
the stories from the books of Gutenberg
the little chiming sound to flip the page
my pride of reading before I even could
how hands folding a letter to my penpal
living next door produced the lines I text
how legs that never liked the hopscotch
now twist around him like a tourniquet
the lights I followed driving into nights
how blades of grass keep growing tall
as I leave years behind, how silky ribs
have turned from past blood slicks
my habit of tenderness so hard to break
the many lives he lives inside me now
he takes me, he says there is a spark
flickering strange and small, a tiny orb 
madly trying to speak whatever it feels
his teeth and tongue and lips define me
for every word and lip and pivot pins
the curves I am onto his board, a board
that lasts as long childhood does_ 



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