A Poetic Journey

I decided to try something different for this contest. I strung together some poems to give a span of a relationship. There is romance in here, honest.

Please enjoy.

Heather

I Tiresias

I had this dream of walking
in an old and dark forest
could feel the trees alive

watching me with cold,
dirt fed minds, reaching out
to snag my white tunic.

Their voices were clear in
the creak of wood, rustle of branch,
in the shudder of leaves.

I beheld these two serpents,
helixed about each other,
a caduceus without the wings.

I stood there and watched them twine,
and when I saw a gap open.
I set my staff there. That’s it.

That’s the dream I had. Now this,
This is my life, my curse, mine
and I am telling you as my friend.

I cried the first day after changing.
That was new. I’d never wept until hiccups
shook me, my face burning from the salt.

I don’t really know if this is real or dream.
I was a man and now I am a woman
but in a way neither feels right.

Is my life a dream? Do I sleep now,
dreaming my life as a woman
or did I dream my life as a boy?

I wish I knew. I cannot think
of any way to tell one from the other,
that I’m not some thing of braided gender?

The only thing I can think of to return
to my former life, the life I miss, is to
find those snakes again, set my staff.

That old life calls to me strongly
and so does this one. It’s difficult
to live this life of separation.

All I ever wanted was a normal life,
without all these vagaries, to be a boy,
a girl, either would be better than this.

Simple Facts

The simple facts of life
rub out the delicate traces
of childhood footsteps
stumbling forward,

of washing dishes by hand
when the dishwasher breaks
and feeling oddly that they
are cleaner somehow,

of sorting laundry into piles
more complex than mere color,
measuring soap, bleach,
making sure the water thins them
before adding clothes to the machine,

of washing the shower walls,
removing soap scum, dye stains,
pulling strands of red and brown
from the drain, throwing them away,

of cutting vegetables for a salad
in uneven pieces, making dressing
from oil and vinegar, herbs, red onion,
shaking well, pouring over food,

of each little act that draws the eye,
other senses, in a weave
that shows clearly,
in a simple way,
why I love you.

Sunday Night

She lies a naked tangle in the sheets,
clutching fabric, clutching hair,
arching like a bow, strong and taut,
never stopping, thrashing the bed
until she collapses, a spent moment,
breath short, panting like a runner,
eyes blinking the ceiling, walls, face
of the shy smile, reverently gazing back.

Sleeping in Candlelight

She stole my pillow,
lying diagonally across the bed,
sheets flung off her naked body.

Flickering bronze light stains
her flesh, shadows shroud her face
as the rise and fall of her breaths
shift her breasts away from the center.

Her hair is the darker for light,
skin glistening wetly under
fires distant caress, curves
enhanced by the flame’s dance
while other fires spark inside.

Her eyes flicker as I shift her,
never really rising to waking
as blankets are tucked loose,
as I undress and join her,
brushing wayward strands
of hair from her cheeks.

I reach up
and snuff the flame with a breath,
dry lips brush her forehead
as I lean into sleep,
tonight was good enough.

Lash of Memory

I forgot the memory of weeping rocks,

of water trickling down gray,
dripping from dangling moss
to make small pools below,

of the flash of daylight at night
burning the image of trees before thunder
into the hungry retina of my eyes,

of the delirious flavor of smoke
spicing camped food, tainting
cool draught of water with ash,

of fields in autumn,
golden grain moving with the wind,
birds lifting into visibility.

I forgot the memory of you,
pale skinned, naked, laughing
in the snow as I move above you,
the cold banking the ardor,
tempering the thrusting,
to crest screaming, shivering in climax,
to fall next to you, kissing blue lips.

I forgot the acrid smell of your anger,
eyes returning nothing as I reached
out to touch forgiveness,

the bitter taste of a phone buzzing dead,
held unbelieving to my ear,
wanting it all to not be true,

the bite of words fading to memory,
sound bites stored forever,
to speak when the pain fades.

I forgot until reminiscence
tore open healed wounds
with the lash of memory.

I forgot pain isn’t forever.

I Blush

The ripe, juicy explosion
of the plum in my mouth
tingling my tongue with
grainy sweetness
leads me to remember you
and burn.

Springtime

Springtime is the worst,
for I can still remember
laying my head against your breasts
and hearing the season’s urge
roar through your blood
like a plague
and me desperate to have caught
the sickness of you.