Wednesday, October 10, 2018

Inside Evening’s Shirt






Evening is the moment
                                                                when all that disappears
doesn’t anymore
 When behind his closed eyes,
from underneath the orange 
crushed  by his cowboy boot,
the veil hiding everything lifts
and kisses the scooting hay bale moon with such pull,
with such mud-red crow hopping,
such ear popping corn husk listening,
such cloud muck-raking,  his river bending music
over the side of their bed
(evening and the moon have the same hip bones)
That the storm of her worsens, eats  roofs
throws houses in mid-air like parties but is kept still
inside him,
in the dervish needle  
of all the unseen-now-seen of him
Inside her haystack.

Inside him, is the skein of her dreams
She makes his shirt of clouds
She knows where to touch him
to make to make Evening’s breathing blue, thick with open,
big cat mouth,
his belly on hers
His boots thrown, but carefully
like the triple monk stars on heaven’s feet
The careful perfect word of god’s poem 
on his wing tipped tongue.

Oh, but it’s she that is
when all that disappears doesn’t
and all that is invisible isn’t any longer
The moon is more evening than Evening
She reflects his true blue self that she kissed into being,
everything unspoken on her lips,
she plays
the music of all that disappears in his eyes
and reappears under her fingers
inside his shirt         

The cello of the dark world inside, the un-disappear-able of him
played by her unveiled light,
her fingers,
her lips,
her isn’t any longer




4 comments:

  1. cello dark
    into the woods
    of a poor man's coat

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  2. I love these poems Anna. This one sent me back to an article/debate about women's vocabulary in poetry. Yesterday? The day before? It was a tedious read. Then I read this poem and although I feel I'm on the outside it makes me want to get inside and understand it and the terms (if there are any) of its difference. Hmmm. Cheers! :)

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  3. So kind of you to want to get inside it, Rob. Sounds like more work than a poem should be. 😂 I think maybe this poem is what she is,the language of her, not because I'm a woman but more because I'm me. Thank you so much for reading my poems and for commenting so kindly . Ive not had the chance to read much of the recent blog!

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