Wading out into a great tree's shadow
and its conversation of angles, the sun's billion-mile speech
to tree, whose reply printed on earth
this needle-done reply, touches also me
kicking its lace around my ankles:
you remember that
these wrists are same shadows, dark blood-
branches of your own April-pale person
I wonder if I could feel the raveling patterns under my skin
and do they graze the tree's when I stand here, fall into any accordance?
(as if I could be picked apart by robins'
feet. as if I couldn't be.)
When everything is stirring into life like this,
it's hard to prefer other. I could be hungry
and still, mays mights mustn'ts of grass stamped
onto my thighs,
I could be my own
hopeful pretentious self unfolding here
beneath these trees.
Being beneath these trees, blue under my skin,
sun over my skin, the thin lines of ink bleeding
from the letters you left across the back of my hand:
Mourned English subjunctive, cast my eyes
back onto this earth.
There are some lovely images and phrases in this. I especially like "its conversation of angles, the sun's billion-mile speech", "branches of your own April-pale person" and "the way ink bleeds from the letters you left across the back of my hand". It just needs a lovely title to go with.
ReplyDelete'I wonder if I could feel the raveling patterns under my skin
ReplyDeleteand do they graze the tree's when I stand here, fall into any accordance?'
I'm dazed by the effect of this poem. It's wonderful.
"Needle-done reply", "kicking its lace around my ankles" -- fabulous imagery.
ReplyDeleteAfthi - no satisfactory title came to me, so I'm not terribly bothered by its absence. perhaps someday.
ReplyDeleteJulia - I wish I could take you through the real moments and THEN ask you how the poem compares to them.
Jenica - Thank you, miss!
i think this is the kind of poetry i like
ReplyDeleteher - I'm really glad you enjoyed it.
ReplyDelete