Confession #6

[novapsyche]

Fly with me, fly by me,
I don't care. Take the tongue
from my mouth, fill me
with aerosol lucidity. My tongue

doesn't matter. A hummingbird
will fill my throat and hover
where my voice once stood, heard
but not heard, drawn yet uncovered.

*

The sun frets. I tear
at my frayed shirt, aroused
by the raggedness there.

I am a stranger to water.
My tongue is boundless, my mouth
is false shelter. I lick the cloud,
the coming storm. I pick
at my flagging skin. What
a human shirt! What monstrosity!
I swallow an oasis of dirt.
I strip to my bones. The hummingbirds
nest in my organs. They seek the drought.

*

I lap at my lips. There is water there,
below my nose, such a strange
reservoir, the channel of curved skin,

the tongue settling there like a raft.
There is a drink of self, a bleed
of sweat, an anguished spot of rain

drenching the cheeks. The sun isn't real.
The sky retreats, and the hummingbirds
with it, revealing a mouth of sand.

Comments

*trembles*

[bloodlikerain.livejournal.com]

This is a very powerful poem

Re: *trembles*

[novapsyche.livejournal.com]

Thanks. I'm actually kind of worried about it. I'll get to revising soon.