I would dress in Dickinson white.
Void. Laced. Celibate as she.
Hewn open like new wood.
Faces in my pattern.
Shave delicate sheets
from my discontented timber,
doodle them icky with dots and dashes ―
maybe a sonnet. Love hymn.
Roll them in a bale of sacred scrolls,
seal with kisses instead of wax,
corked in the bottle
from the Christmas Cava.
Yelp! As I heave it from the bridge.
Watch it bob downstream
in the volume between
my legs and yours.
After months and years,
I would scour my mind for your voice,
open your book and inhale
for your scent.
for your scent.
tk/June 2015
I like what R.A.D. does with my words ... I'll have what he's having ...
Tess, that last verse really leaves a strong image..searching for that voice.
ReplyDeleteBingo! Love the thought "scour my mind for your voice"
ReplyDeleteloved this post
ReplyDeleteTerrific-- sensual, loving. That bottle doesn't sound bad for a cataclysm. K.
ReplyDeleteTo be able to tell the world .. yes the message in a bottle is the way to go.. :-)
ReplyDeleteYour poem brought every bit of love, loss, longing to my surface ...
ReplyDeletelove the sensual atmosphere!
ReplyDeleteLove that last stanza. And I too wrote of a note in a botle...sort of.
ReplyDeleteTo scour one's mind for a long=forgotten voice, have we not all done that?
ReplyDeletelove the imagery here, "icky with dots and dashes".
ReplyDeleteI think I would do pretty much the same things Tess. I love the way R.A.D. reads this week it kind of made me giggle. Enjoy your week! Hugs!
ReplyDeleteTo be brought back to the niceties of good feelings after a span of years can be so therapeutic! Great write Tess!
ReplyDeleteHank
Such an aching message ....
ReplyDeletehas me thinking of forgotten time capsules and lost messages. . . nice work.
ReplyDeleteAh, how many voices got sank there...
ReplyDeleteOh my, his words like snowflakes falling wet against the window, and slowly, slipping down.... I'd so hate to think this were the end of our world!
ReplyDeleteLove the idea of looking through the pages.
ReplyDelete