Buzzing Poems

A Heart Is A Fist

.

A heart is a fist,
the lump of a knuckle
folded into itself,

its curve a curl
containing spools of days
it alone chooses.

One chamber might
intimate visuals of days,
another, purely sensation.      

A girl with skinned knees
hating her time
with the silver hairbrush.

A bite from a black dog,
tucking three stitches
neatly into place.

The fall from
a red roof onto
grass, laughing.

Yes, the heart is a fist
clenched tightly
against remembering.

Our slow dance
into tears and years
of careful forgetting.

The phone call left
unanswered, the ringing
that echoes on, forever.

And a keening so loud
it arced a dome
into the sky—

a membrane that
kept out everything
but could not keep us.

.

Lament

..
No one knows anymore
the warm tan of my thighs.

How at night, under cover
of muslin they shimmer secretly,
writhing like the forked tongue
of some great serpent still as stone,
lying in wait, sniffing out
prey for the loving.

Who remembers
the damp musk of their embrace?
Who shivers at the scissors
of loins in that first flush of touch
before the quicksilver flash,
the descent into darkness?

No, no one knows anymore.

.