Tuesday, January 3, 2012

lovers (no. 9)

lovers (no. 9)

this is what he wanted
what he longed for
with her                        (and only her)


to read a book
she read
the pages turned
by her fingers
the book spine softened
by her hands
one slight smudge
from the oil of her skin. . .
this book of her


to sit outside
in summertime
just beyond the shade
for them to touch
warmed skin of two
as he leaned over to smell
along the curve of her neck
across the slope of her shoulders. . .
this sunshine on her


to hide in her closet
or beneath her bed
listening to her talk
listening to her breathe
listening to her laugh
listening to her silence
listening to her feet
across the floor. . .
these three spaces of her


to hand her his razor
and watch her hands
shave his head
in four surrounding mirrors
a task like unfrosting a cake
leaving small bright drops
of blood across his skull
and running down his neck. . .
these nicks of her time


to write her a poem
about the number nine
and every wordless thing
that swims in his veins
and calcifies his bones
and quickens his heart
like five tattoos
across his calf. . .
his gospel of her


to reach down
and hold her ankle
the skin smooth
over the bone of her
this joint of her turning
bearing the weight of her
and carrying him forward
like six secret songs on a breeze. . .
the ground she has hallowed


to paint her fingernails
a rainbow of seven colors
like Jordan almonds
pastels and fingernails
and he would
taste each one
as they sat in the darkness
of a movie theater. . .
him quietly crying


to dream of her
for eight hours one night
calling out her name
and tasting her on his lips
in his unconscious world
where everything is clearer
with eyes shut and fluttering
and her there beside him. . .
the her of their bed awake


to whisper in her ear
“you are the number
beyond nine
where most people stop
and then start again
with the numbers they know”
and linger there
beside her ear. . .
her he could count on

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