Monday, May 1, 2017

May Tortures (#poetry #lust #spring)

green fields


To P.M.S.
May, 1975

it’s a cruel eve
with a satin breeze
and a moon scent
and the kiss of leaves
that is barely laughter

and somewhere away
down highway miles
sculpted in twilight
(I can feel them
fleeing beneath
your well-governed wheels)
the fields swell,
rolling and ripe,
as wild and warm
as flesh.

In each breath
they shape themselves,
rippling and real
as this porch and pen
the tingle of skin
on skin, and a cover
of unruled green.

I am queen.
Your arms and the field-grass
both hold the press
or my shape forever.
this weather...
this wind...
this midsummer-seeming
this May
is a devil;
this heavenly air
will kill me
with dreaming—
I’ll die
of hunger.

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