of anne sexton—and my lover (periwinkle & lavender)
may i kiss the back
of your knee
trailing up up
along the inside
of your thigh
like an anne sexton poem?
may i take your foot
in my hand
kissing the softest part
there
though you complain
that your legs
are not long and brown
(sorry, anne, sorry)
hamlet tells ophelia—
that’s a fair thought
to lie between maid’s legs—
and i suppose
that’s true
though “fair” can mean
many things
like “delicate,” “amber,” and “perfect”
and i believe he was not talking
about “thought”
no—
it was “to lie,”
it was “between,”
it was “legs”
and you sent me her poem
in your handwriting
on a small white card
periwinkle
sprung from a woman’s eye
lavender
bloomed from your fingernail
her words
in your hand
have carved themselves
inside my chest
scars sprouting like roots
and speaking like Braille
to a dying woman
searching for her child
gone blind from exhaustion
crawling on her hands and knees
in her withering hysteria—
yes—they will carry me in
on a wooden bench
then everything—everything
will blossom across your cheeks
like a bouquet of tears
because no one will speak
no one will speak
so every hand
can hear
the words
like periwinkle & lavender
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