I told a friend, I’m like Emily Dickinson,
I choose the moment of my fame.
I told him of her entombment out of disgust
with her family’s love of boredom.
Veins and arteries trade places in a poem
the way you are anybody you need to be.
On what rocks must you wreck to dash all hope
between the thighs, clamber of legs,
the body’s impossible odds . . .
Metaphor mixed with sand and water yield
a muddy feel of the soul grinding its largesse
into oblivious rage . . . My friend walked
across the Connecticut, the old bridge swaying,
saying, I’ll go see my squeeze and count ribs
between kisses that tongue my heart’s left side,
the one that keeps pumping if the right side
don’t decide to up and die. I’ll survive
my ladies, but how brave I need to be!
One may be older, one younger,
but by no more than a day of kisses
turned to fuck my cock when I swim between
their common channel, with your cache of guns
loading the chambers of my flesh.
to K & D
(9, 25 June 2012)
copyright 2012 by Floyce Alexander