consuelacooks

cooking, poetry, and unapologetic intense moments in a life

Month: January, 2016

Tue 222

This morning I gave up bewilderment.

Took new snow in bare hands, wiped clean.

Skyward gazing, seeing the brown of morning eyes.

 

It has been four hundred years.

Since in the histrionic ante meridiem

You, compunctious , penitent, shame faced

Sold me the snake oil

that gave salve for the emboldened heart

acclimatized my expectation

resurgence of disquiet

I held my heart in my hand and ate of it

(creature in a desert, naked, bestial)

 

One can’t help but remember, though

On a sweet January day

that concave part

beside the basket of ribs–the alabaster crevasse

(You showed it me)

perhaps where you kept your wishes and desires

Your conjecture

Your bliss

Your ecstatic posturing, feral

your violence and ignominy,

the sound of your voice in deep midnights.

 

Or better yet, the names and numbers of the snowflakes that would fall

in eulogy

the day you walked away.

 

It’s all so dramatic, she said.

The Whole lot.

Something comes of nothing and then, bother, bother

the whole place erupts in glamour. Clamour

erupts in the sunshine, the moonshine, the deep seated egress

-the bible of those two.

Oh, those volumes spoken in glances were so very tiresome

for two as timid as trees, windless.

 

It’s all so ecstatic, she said

The sole shot

Something comes of nothing and then, Farther, farther

The whole grace disrupts in armor, stammer

disrupts sin, confine, consign, maligning sleep cheated confession

-the bible of those two

No, shows volumes long broken in chances were so very dire, mums

the word, for two as livid as leaves, flightless

 

It’s all so climactic, she said

The blood clot.

That effortless bruise, the reminder of all that was, is– holy.

The prayer in tongues older than sound

more revealing than sight,

larger than the space a girl occupies

achromic, melancholy,

 

naming the planets, each for a sigh.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Memory loss, 951

 

Some Inn with a fire, somewhere in some Berkshire town.

With some rug, some orange, some tub

lilac smelling

 

prophesies- some day something

some cataclysm would befall

some lovers

 

they would fall, relent, give in

learn the lash line

sink the teeth

 

armed, perhaps for the sheet fort confrontation

and the inevitable wounds

of the war.

 

 

 

 

 

1049, and ultra marathons

In imagining the flowers

(The ones beneath pearly wan winter)

replete with pregnant universal cogitation

A signal starts in the belly,

past the tiny contenting fingerprints

etched in the hips (they seem so discreetly delicious)

-a solemn supper of the sweet lyrical grace of the feminine

-a banquet welcoming attentive natal secrets

-an eve of nectarous exchanges

I wanted to eat you like a whole peach, pit and all,

pull the sorrows out, name and number them

for Egypt, Afric, Abyss.

I wanted to slide sideways into that sadness and ride it to light.

 

 

Simple, simple, slow, she said.

I want you to say my name.

 

 

447

Buffeted by the roar

they run sidelong to the raw spot

the ice under Sunday feet tempts the fall

but holding steady they

look the anti-hero in the eyes

each.              several.            pore.

They know the smell of the forearm, the navel, the mouth

an inch is not given

but a subtle sigh

reminds them

of the field

they hold in protest

between lovers bodies

the magnetic one, the mine one, the playing one–

(the history older than light or sound, where language began, where heat was discovered and gills grew. Where breath was sucked first)

–that binds the space they occupy.

Jaws hold tight, fists secure in woolen pockets, they are WINNING. Holding tight. Not an inch. Not one.

The crafty wind bellows too hard, though.

It pushes, cracks the moment, shoves

headlong, laughs in the wash of  tired

restraint.

They fall suddenly, with clamorous equivocation, gravid with stones

(the rain, a comedic metronome)

the inevitable rejoinder

into the puzzle pieces they unwillingly are, laggard

as they close ferocious,

and with premeditated lamentation

masticating mouths the substance of fire.

the slightest silk,

the most meager of archangels,

they return to that.

A parley, they knew. They’ve known.

But the comfort was all,

that Sunday.

 

 

Saturday, 2:07

Sometimes in drifts

Battalions, then other times

(What DOES it mean to PERCH in the soul?)

Tying that knot twenty times

(each fifth grader knew exactly the nature of hope)

I counted.

Sadness is the great mathematician.

after door’s click my eyes closed

the cliche in me wanted to remember the night past when

we tight in rose hip fist of limbs pining exhausted ending ate the rest of us alive,

then some eggs.

To will breath is

too overwhelming, now.

Hum of refrigerator, deafening

So sadness and I, we count the white lights

circling the tree

covered in feathers (sings the tune without)

backs of cut up greeting cards

(the words)

I do not think I will,

(she said)

I think, perhaps, (she said)

I am too tired to do this more.

But (she said)

The curve of your waist is so lovely, more petite and paint-worthy

Than that of the soldier, the scholar.

Perhaps,(she warned)

I never should have learned the line of it.

Perhaps (she recanted) it is best a part

of the sweetness you showed me once

On a boat,

on a small journey

To some island

or some other where (she laughed)

most likely in my wildest fancies.

The ragged white of the back of her hand shivered, slight

she drew from memory the relief of the familiar

what is was to be sure of herself

closed her book

and

took one step.

One.

 

 

 

 

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