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Literature Text
she sings to me
like the sad sparrow in
the cold,
dusking the day
with a draw of chords.
and i want her
to choke
on the glissando
of her cordial chirps
and gasp like
she were a drowning
nestling,
because i
cannot breathe with her
so close to the window, i
so close to the
resurrection
of the freedom
of mine she imprisoned.
i take hold the
nape of her larynx, swollen
with weep and apology,
hoping to snip
her straight clean.
instead i fold over her
like a nest and rock
her to sleep.
Literature
Acquittal
Won't you leave me? I will love you
more than if you stay, transfixed
to the point of reference, our bodies
melding a sad, soft sublime, the back
spine of a little universe blown out
like a crafter's hot glass, the growing
moment, the wonder, the expansion
before a chill.
Literature
Poem for a Mother
When I was four
I'd follow you into the bathroom
on sticky feet,
press my little bird hands
into the back pockets of your jeans
while you were washing dishes
at the sink,
babbling on: Mommy, Mommy,
I love you.
Then there was the youth
who played Simon Says
to your aerobic routine.
I took jumps to your steps,
laughing as I tripped,
I wanted to go
where you went
I practiced to be
who you were.
The world split sideways
and I stumbled out
a teen traumatized
by the gory birth.
I'd've sworn you did it to me:
the red plague of my face,
the heartache,
the inexplicable serrating rage,
I beat at you as an extension
of self.
Literature
Reddist
Before you, there were women
with full breasts,
breasts with perk tips and beneath them:
hips wide as my hand spread,
but never love.
Athenas before you,
my eyes only followed the apples;
and then, suddenly:
A wild brook unleashed
and I never knew I was a basin
meant to be filled.
A woman sewn
from the smile of Coyote,
from the same hands that bent time
and created life for a laugh-
Apples became
the sweetest fruit; be my reddist-
I will love you madder
than a hatter and brasher than a miner.
Wilder for a gypsy.
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© 2012 - 2024 KaitForest
Comments26
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Funny, how the people who simultaneously drive us crazy are also the ones we feel the most sorry for. Rather than lashing out like we might want to, we fold them up in our arms instead.
Maybe I'm misinterpreting. I don't know.
I know I love all your words.
Maybe I'm misinterpreting. I don't know.
I know I love all your words.