Sunday, July 21, 2013

The 4th Rib


Your chest

holds flowers and tattoos

near the skin.

Bold long feet

and ascetic hands

that were made to

cook shyly.


that never wander

the lengths

of a woman's body

and lips

of a Botticelli

smoker saint.

Your clothes

never smelt

like any other man.

Not like lovers

or fathers

or brothers.

The last time

I folded them,

they blossomed

in my hands

as if your own threads

rubbed their scent

onto these palms.

Neither are you sex.

Nor a wild slash of the wrist.

You are a quiet sweat.

Between my breasts.

A way of silent

bedside goodbyes

each time we meet.

I always did want to answer

the question

on your calf

with my tongue,

But then I was grieving.

A mad widow takes no former lovers.

You were meant

to be hung

by those lips

on my wall to touch.


I never told you

how you were

an earlier lover

and will always be.