floating and leaving no trace
i’ll tell you what failure
tastes like
tastes like needles
tastes like need
tastes like less
tastes like a fucking mirror
chewed up over a lifetime
tastes like glass
tastes like cold silver
welling up behind your tongue
tastes like every dream
you ever had
tastes like every nightmare
you ever had
tastes like staring
into the other lane of traffic
tastes like that shadow
in the corner of the room
tastes like a mouth
full of blood
i have given you
half of my life
i wish for you to
have the remainder
we will listen to wind
chimes in the breeze
watch lizards scurry
across sun-warmed stones
we will find shade
and we will have our peace
i wait on the smell
of a cigarette burned down
to the crushed filter
out walking
under this late
september sky
promised thunderstorms
never saw a drop of rain
dirty mud drops
spotted the bonnet of the car
where they dried
the air stinks of rain
refusing to fall
and diesel
–petrichor and fuel–
making me remember
autopia and the submarine ride
at disneyland
they don’t
take paper tickets
anymore
the blue in the sky
a cobalt strike
like earth when
you take her picture from space
clouds rolling
blisters of grey and
not quite white
i remember autumn
by the smell of leaves
wet sticky ones–all wilted lettuce
and dry ones–crackling thin potato chips
bring on the equinox
i’m ready for a day with
an equal amount of light
and darkness
standing below the spinning sky
the falcon doesn’t heed me
having found more palatable prey
in its freedom
i rest on my back
staring at a ceiling
scraped smooth
and white
by previous owners
the only thing tearing
at my liver
an eagle named
anxiety as the weekend
slips over the horizon
with the sun
i close my eyes
and see an expanse of white
and open my eyes
and see an expanse of white
i wonder what it would be like
to give the gift of fire
without getting blistered hands
if being chained to a rock
is all that bad
having made a mark
that went down on his
permanent record
and i wonder what color
his sky is
old marble surrounds her there
her ghost, yet feverish, growls
remember
rhythm
blush
sex
star
haunt
wake
——
moon–you’re the right size
to slip into my pocket
or stay in my eye
——
hearts carry no locks
because no keys exist
to open them
doors have locks
and require keys
and pianos have keys
and produce harmony
and harmony is made
into grits
–wait that’s wrong–
we were talking about hearts
but i got distracted
thinking about breakfast
and i’ve never actually
had grits
if i keep talking maybe
you won’t notice how
my rib cage closes in
on my heart
like prison bars
no locks just
bars
it twists and turns
this road
and not easy to traverse by
any means
avoiding the infinite
fall into footsteps
of behemoths and other
rough beasts who have
trod this way before
fellow travelers
blindfolded all
led by sense of smell
and is it lilies or
the rot of decay
eye-closed pilgrims
don’t see the road
for what is is, a knife
sliding between the ribs as
it twists and turns
——
for
Jane Doughtery Writes
Poetry challenge #48: Circles and cycles
Words and Feathers 