Tre Fou
you are an oak tree one hundred years old and I am the circus five hundred years old but all my acts are untied shoes I fall all over you trying to pull the right words
By Katarina Tyler6 months ago in Poets
Saint John the apostle is eating my leftovers at my dinner table and I remember my mom told me she thinks of me often and prays for me each day
I wish I could forgive my father. speak to him in piano forte and soft resonance remember him in calm cashmere knits swirling steam from coffee
With my burning ear against your breastplate I can hear the hot air in your lungs rush from your root to the sky of your bedroom
There is a course of lonely blood running through the left side of my body I freeze in my sleep
You drenched my purple heart in promises you couldn't keep you couldn't keep me my stolen spine still heavy in your hands
In The Alexandrian Hours I wait for you Time dances around my waist he is a small boy with red wings and he is always chomping on an apple
hey there little moon lady we are all just waves passing our souls back and forth And they say the ending is just a beginning but
I know how fallen and exquisite we were so I take your songs of me and dry them out drain them of color hide them in a nook
All I ever wanted was to swallow the whiskey in your throat I didn’t hear the church in your chest calling me home with a makeshift choir caroling to my spine
I remember feeling so close to something A tripping wire. A known klutz. I remember your hands the most. His are so soft.
behind my eyelids i see you waiting across the floor for me your legs bent to each side like river boats long and beckoning
