unfinished, raw, but ready enough
(appended with Here Is Why Insomnia)
I am dying to sing something beautiful
over you, into you, about you;
Here now is the want
to trail off notes with
the curve of my ankle,
to float measures via
the wisp of hair at my neck,
to illustrate the primal backbeat by
the meat of my thighs.
I long to soar across steady bars on
the lightest caress of my fingertips.
My muscles into the coda again and again,
toes tiptoeing the silences between with mastery.
I imagine crafting
delicate melodies with my eyelids,
a lullaby with my backbone,
low wails emanating from my wrists.
There would my chin keep time,
letting my shoulders find their tone
and my hips shore up breath.
All so that my scapula can scream the exact pitch
which your name hums on in my every part.
It is coming a veritable flood here. Thank you, oh Miss Fay. We have been so dry for so long. That sort of thing has a sly effect on the people, even if they don’t realize it.
Summer tomatoes are the worst they’ve ever been. Mister Robert brags on having to pump out his back yard fish pond twice in five hours. “Save that water,” I joke with him, “we’ll need it probably sooner than later.”
We have an entire closet devoted to just-in-case food storage. This week powdered eggs arrived. I must admit that it slinks in the back of my brain, the notion that some of the powdered things will be useless sans water. Will there be enough water?
We have bullets, too. I only want them for protection; I fear ever having to use them to attain something of sustenance. Something out of have to. Should the world become that place, though, I think I would. But I would admonish the children to cover their eyes and ears first.
If it ever comes to that, that is.
12 worked it out »