No Entwining Bodies

May 4, 2009 at 5:41 pm · Filed under Poems and tagged: soft thoughts

Reaching home, she lingers by the kettle

Its white perfume flattens on her neck

She pours a cup and strokes the delicate nettling neck

Of the thread running to the label, lifting it up

Her dish worn fingers muse over the vein

And down again her painted nails tap the china

While in her belted pants, her aching vagina,

Oh her aching vagina, craves for the attention

Of another with the same delineating caress

That she presses to the cotton ladder

Connecting sack to staple.

At seven o’clock the news is on

And she sits before the yawning face

Of the newsreader analysing and critical of him

She reads it better and quietly, in her mind

She puts him in his place, drawing meaning,

Careful arguments, elegantly phrased

To throw against him, if she meets him,

And that give him cause to be amazed,

While beneath her blouse, her breasts,

Oh her aching breasts,

Are begging to be caressed in the same

Thoughtful way she redistributes blame

And identifies hidden politics.

By midnight the drawing of the curtains

Preludes her decision to go to the sanctuary of her bed.

She draws back the covers in lingering motions

Revealing the dirty white sheet

Which has had no devotion

Of bonded and entwining bodies

That has known no emotion but of the

The damage of being constantly restrained

And the dreams in the censorious brain

Of the sensuously damned and the deadened.

She sleeps, oh how she sleeps,

With the dull sentience of an unworried child

In this quiet house, under the shroud

Of her aging body and the clock ticking in the lobby

Precisely measuring the time

Away, away, away from the divine.

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