Friday, July 23, 2010

I will unknot the creases in your muscles where your inside
map space curls into a roundabout u-turn crossed over bypass
to nowhere. Your hemispheres of patterned land separated by
violet ink swirls under your eyes curl around the same route
into white knuckle grip, snow chained fingers on a steering wheel.

I will loosen them, mold, curl them around mine like all the days
when my whole hand could fit into my daddy's, like necks wrapped
themselves out the car window open mouthed, eyes shut. I'll fold myself
inside your bones, unscrew all the pins, teach you the geography
of your complexion. Please learn that skin is skin and my skin wants
for your skin and it was meant to sag and wrinkle and twist around
green branched, split ended in spring, curl in lip pursed u's where I've been.

It breaks open in powdered flakes of orange leaf autumn. I will wrap
you around every season, pull you stretch and maybe taffy will feel right,
your lips will find the smile God found in the dark. I'll let you simmer,
let you rise and scoop out the seeds of your middle stuck end-to-end
like vanilla beans spread over Mom’s bamboo cutting board.

You are sugar orange slices left stale in a crystal star-of-David bowl
in the back cabinet of the dining room curio. Once I tried to hide you
under the porch planks, between panes of tinted car windows,
behind the lattice we put up to keep the rabbits out, but you
were too much lightening and not enough still quilted silence.
Someday I will knead your shoulders into raisin bread
smooth.

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