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Copyright © 2009 Wordletting. All rights reserved. All rights to the poetry on this website are owned by the individual authors, and no part of this site may be reproduced, published, distributed, displayed, performed, copied, or used in any other manner for public or private purposes. |
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Issue 4 |
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Page 2 |
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orpheus to eurydice
can i tell you why i love you?
can i tell you the curve, your neck, the moon the silence, your eyes, the night--
i stare at you, the star and see a thousand resting mysteries
taut against the inward surface of your skin like apple flesh,
sightless, soundless waiting. to burst the tender skin. red juice. white light. my love.
— sara couden |
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Venus Grapefruit
The skin of you molten, pliable, ready, fragrant, promising great yield,
yielding sweet dreams, starlit mornings. Venus you say and I raise my soggy eyelids.
Huh? I say, and it's not poetic. It's barely intelligible. There are ashes
in the tray and hair in my face. Huh? You bite and juice runs down your chin.
Venus you say and kiss me sour.
— Jai Britton |
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library
Your flesh is out of the question so, twirling the pencil you left behind until your bite aligns with mine.
I lick your fingerprints, swallow hard, grind yellow paint between my teeth.
— Ramesh Dohan
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Skin
I felt the Minnesota winter making a brick wall out of my skin A chapped, chafing suit of armor against the cold: Winter skin, ugly as sin– Nobody gets to come in. But I didn’t want to be cold and closed, I didn’t want a muffled heart. So I left Asked South America to make a map of my body Political boundaries in my cracked heels The capital and all the major cities mapped in freckles on my cheek A mountain range of blisters on my back. There my pores were permeable I sweated canola oil, guava juice, cane liquor My eyes turned green Not with envy but with mangroves With fresh tapir dung Or with green snakes hanging from the trees Indistinguishable from vines And my skin welcomed in the lowland dust Pressed itself naked to the burning Pan America asphalt Absorbed the smell of chickens on buses And the exhaust that turned the insides of my ears to soot Embraced the Incan god who blackened my nose (a baptism in ash) Who peeled skin like ceremonial robes off my back Layer after layer Until I was pink Until I was new. And that’s how I came back to you With the purest skin I could don. You were sleeping in a bed up North Under ten thick quilts We were both very naked Except for our skin Which seemed like a wall Or a window. That’s when I discovered that Your skin smelled like lavender Pressed between the pages of a brand new book And I discovered that if I slept next to you long enough My skin did too; Like fresh paper it welcomes you.
— Alexis White
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Notes: Skin by Alexis White was first published in Hidden City Quarterly, Spring 2009. Library by Ramesh Dohan was first published in Sentinel Literary Quarterly. |
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Edge of the Bed
You are breathing lurid and shallow mouth open, gulping down the heavy, humid air in short desperate gasps I watch you sleep, knowing that you’re uncomfortable stout body turned toward the window, begging for a breeze It is not easy for you, living with a poet who composes best in bathtubs, or steamed rooms, or any sticky spring morning Yet you are patient, smiling, shaking your head when I complain of how air conditioning stifles and how fans are like cheating You sigh at my humid sexual metaphors or shudder in delight when I delicately savor the saltiness of your skin Your heavy scent hangs in our room you embrace your discomfort for the sake of my art a truly lovely gesture But in those quiet moments at night while sitting on the edge of the bed you wipe your forehead and I can see you’d rather be anywhere cooler
— Kathleen Chaballa |
