Friday, April 13, 2018

"there was a bad moment with bridges"

Here we are, testing the spirits
and the waters,
dipping our toes in,
adjusting the faucet—
is it too warm for you?

Your skin is softer than mine.
I noticed something weathered
in the wrinkles by my eyes tonight.
Sometimes womanhood feels like that:
the surprise of blood you’ve forgotten
and the shock of grey appearing
silver, glinting memento mori 
(if you’re feeling melodramatic)
(I am)
in the permanent brown.

I don't wear gloves when I wash dishes.
But I should.
Still, my hands are soft.

I don't trust whatever muse moves
between your heart and mine.
The spirit is a broken trampoline,
which will buckle with one bounce.

What is plastic and adamantine,
malleable and incorruptible,
sturdy in its surrendering?

That's not a riddle,
but a prayer.

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