consuelacooks

cooking, poetry, and unapologetic intense moments in a life

Tag: poetry

09.11.001

Summer’s End or Chicken Shit 101

It is really so simple, she said

Light down the spine,

name and number each bone

make a fantastic inventory.

Use descriptive language when searching for skin, hair

wrap each finger carefully in curls

(the slightest tug will do for now)

Ask short questions pertaining to the weight of winks

Itemize the sighs, bottle, and preserve.

Linger in the kisses a moment too long,

paying close attention to the way the eyes look while closed- just after.

Document.

Rest on the slight curve of the hip, apply pressure with fingertips. Make the slightest mark.

Index all of the whispers, separating night from day whispers.

Backlog each moment we speak of love.

Season is fickle.

Words and wild remain un-categorized,

lovely, longing and without requite.

I will paint this, sing it. And forget.

See you each day, (And your graceful peasant eyes)

referring to the record

of our almost (surrender) affair.

Errors in judgement, or I adore you.

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One is a bedfellow, soft

One is a tempest

One is drowning

One shakes with late night chemical fever

‘How can you say to me, I am a King?’

Shakespeare asks this-

Every time each finds nirvana they weep for roads untraveled, children unborn, wives taken before time came, days un-lived.

Each time a drop of blue travels South in weathered hands

They call a name: creatress, animal, soul, basilisk.

You sing a song of Satet, as she cleaned that crazy river.

You sing a song of Leto, fading into dim mother light

You sing a song of Artemis, clinging to child face for safties unknown

There are four days to speak of in all of this.

Three are secret, and filled with spilled judgement

One is a birth and a death and a life in between. That day I will speak of-

On each day you said my name as it was the first name you ever spoke.

And on each day I closed my eyes to the Sun which I knew would set.

Hoping it never would.

Wherefore means WHY or Let me pick your flowers

Post lizard-hunting activities

One day until wheels leave ground and I am airborne

And two three dancing at the derby and

Three four spine like I will travel down old paths

And old familiar eyes

Angels and batboys both need running shoes

And twenty years later will I say your name?

The house is burning, sweet Jesus- the smoke!

Skywise it puffs up like proud bird and God will go bowling soon

I’ll point my toes toward the red

If only for a day more

A night more

One love at a time at a viper’s speed

Pouncing on heart and freeing the room that was left

Behind years ago

Where falling leaves live, and earthworms the size of

Stormtroopers, cats the size of

Two-stories, hands the size of

Me.

And I pause for dreaming

I remember running, running so fast, so far in rain

At six or seven, running in stealth, me and Roberto

Fast with tight white Florida shirts baring

Arms, hands brown

Shorts baring brown legs, dirty knees

(post lizard hunting)

And that lightning could have pounded me in the chest as he

Closed in fast

Closed in grabbing

Arms tight closed in hard and fast

On pink mouth with kiss

And the rain ran down curiosity

The rain ran down a different take on Father

The rain ran down balloons and birthday scotch

I felt tongue muscle slide across wet bottom lip

Fierce Florida destitute forlorn poor kids

Learning the way to longer days

Punching the sky with boredom and new-found

Belly clenching activities

I don’t want to give, I say. I don’t want to

Have to quiet down.

I want to yell it scream it kick it whisper it

Bigger than my life before

I want to swim before and after by MY hand.

I want to keep my words, and my womb and my wicked hands

And throw them slowly to the sea

I want to learn 5 ways to say I desire you.

I want to be silent and only watch.

I want a different take on this all.

I want to rub chocolate on the white house and

Eat from my yard

I want to eat you like a whole almond, he said.

Me and time we see,

And I never knew the shape of trees in a hurricane.

And I love has never left me so full as these years, three

And I wait for your foot on the stair.

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NOPOMO 13 or God, I want my lobster

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Miles to Go

Each patch of skin
Is inventoried
All the stories that arrive with a touch

Tell all the nasty natal secrets
The preternatural longings, naïve mistakes, wild worldly wisdom
Anomalous wantings

Every inch has a history
They are all named and numbered and filed away
Shoved into memory
Without exception, forever locked
In my bare bones

Most steps I take sing a song of you
And I don’t even know your name.

NAPOMO day 12, or Dad

WSM

It happened so slowly, like erosion
Or some other process that wears away
Even the most minute of characteristics
Without so much as a warning

Little by little you became faint as you fell away
It seemed like years before I realized you were missing
Somewhere on the couch you occupied
You spirit gave in to deep gravity

It sank in some half world
Some retreat for the lost
A haven for the iniquitous, the abandoned, the abased
I never saw you again.

So I grew and grew
Became a woman with strong hands and fierce heart
For better or for worse knowing who I am, where I came from
I can even tell the direction of the wind on some days

Some days I think of your crooning voice
Your particular tastes
And how I must have smelled
When, as an infant you sang me to sleep.

NAPOMO day 11 or ode to a prince, not yet arrived

Ode to a prince, not yet arrived
-Carmen Mandley

Wanting to see your face
Forty years from now
Reminds me that were I not getting old
The requested amount of time would be around sixty
Or eighty.
But the part that is the best parts of all of the parts
Is that I will be able to name and number
Your sweet wrinkles
For the planets and worlds
That travel through your miraculous spine
And settle soft on those eyes
That light on me when I speak your name
In a lover’s language
Every day
For the rest of all of the days.

NAPOMO Nine or Delilah never went to the dance hall

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Secondo Posto

With a shake of hips and a lick of promise
He encased her mouth with dark kisses
The dance hall, a ghost town

Lights dim
He could not tell the difference for once
In tequila haze

Were it not for the daisies painting her black locks
He would not have come to
Not have realized
No memory of Lila would have come
He wouldn’t have walked away from the angelo puttana
She would have fit the bill
She would have served a turn, you know.
But he had to step away. Just for a look.
Then off he went into the night alone.

You see, Delilah only wore
The pure purple
Of crocus lilies
In cappeli neri

She smelled of the freshest beets
Dug from tart earth
Knees, knocked, severe and lovely.
She spoke of God and men, and sweet, sweet babies
(The ones who would miss her after the fever)
She dreamed of Afric, Canaan, and tremendous storms.
She spoke his name in her secrets
And called to him each morning to pray
She was sweeter than a mango kissed with the sun-

And her hands were stained with rain.

On being medicated or Morning kisses

When the window shade sits just so

you are Suessian in the light.

And I remember all that I saw when we were so quiet-

and I counted your freckles in your sleep.

wise women tell tales in secret books

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In stealth
I lurked over it
seeing escapades
light, dark mischief
twenty lovers
one hundred miscarriages of justice
loss of things
a lie and a dark secret.

when I opened it
the pages creaked as if only opened
years ago

I found a phrase on the second page
in neat printing
the only one in the book.
I pictured her face as I prepared to read it.

“I write my life through action.”

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