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Not a love poem

July 14, 2011

By: soyluv

This is what it’s not about.
This is not about the way
you trudge out of bed at ungodly hours
life-infused Frankenstein, too tall;
arms and legs like Tolkien’s Ents,
lumbering to the bathroom where you always remember
to put the seat back down. This is not about
how you said you could wine (but didn’t)
and you learnt about J’ouvert, third-eye aflutter
so you saw beneath my paint and mud.

This is not about
how you said you weren’t a smoker, but really
really you are one–
and when you told me how your mother died
lips tasting like cheap cigars and ‘dro–
how when you curled your mouth
around the sadness, I felt sad too
but I didn’t want you to think I was pitying you.

This is not about
your head beneath my fingertips
pecan skin
or your big-big feet
or your big-big hands
how they wrap around my own
your body enveloping mine,
all fetal reabsorption-like
or a giant burrito, warm and delicious
making me feel tiny, which I almost never do these days.

This is not about
how I wouldn’t mind if you loved me
if you wanted to go down that road again
even for a moment
barefoot, to feel the dust and fresh
dirt between your toes. I’d carry you if I could
me, my bad back, my heart an open birth canal
oozing, thumping, waiting for a bloody head to crown.

2 Comments leave one →
  1. July 23, 2011 2:50 am

    Love. This.

  2. July 23, 2011 9:58 pm

    Thanks Joanne! 🙂

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