SPN Poem: Amnesia, Gen, G
Title: Amnesia
Author: Port
Rating: G
Pairing: Lisa/Dean
Notes: I keep writing poetry! I think it's because lately my plot ideas are less plotty than atmospheric and contemplative. Here's one suggested by smilla02, she of the awesome prompt suggestions. Thanks go to fannishliss for the beta. She is the reason the second draft is so different from the first, and in my opinion, much better. Thanks, Liss! Lastly, comments rock, even critical ones. Lastly-lastly--enjoy!
Summary: Lisa breathes and admits a visitor.
Inhale: he visits.
Count to five and he fills her
stomach. Five-count and her lungs are flush
with his presence inside her.
Another two seconds raise her
collarbone toward his tall memory.
She knew a man once, she’s sure.
He wasn’t the father of her son-
her son who sighs, discontent,
on the sidewalk, in the car, at the dinner table.
He was a good man, tall and corporeal-she knows it.
Exhale, measured, steady:
lose him on a fifteen-count.
He exits her body, withdraws
into air damp with her sweat.
From the top of her lungs to her
diaphragm, he has gone.
She knew him-or else this passion
is for nothing, for no one. It’s no brittle thing.
It is pink and flushed, tangible.
She could hold it in her hands.
Day by day it grows.
It laughs and runs.
Shallow meditation breaths. He is inside her again,
warm at her pelvis, radiating passion.
This is what she has now.
She’s not a woman to imagine ideals.
She knew a man. He was warm and
held her in bed. Or did she hold him?
Inhale: he visits to say yes, yes she held him.
She held him in her house,
in her arms, in her steady breath.
She dried his tears with her pillowcase.
Inhale: he visits, and grief, his friend,
embraces her with cold, skeletal arms
about her ribs. She releases everything
in a whuff of air. She lets him go.
Exhale four, three, two.
Her lungs are compressed,
her stomach pressed backward.
Hold. Hold.
She knew him because she’s
not a woman to grieve on a whim.
Her despondency is fertile and blue.
It flows and draws away,
approaches and leaves behind buttons and shells.
Last night, her son woke up in tears
and could not say why.
Neither can she, but someday she will.
Air is a wonder, a gift, a revival.
He visits on the inhale.
One day, he’ll stay when she lets go.
Author: Port
Rating: G
Pairing: Lisa/Dean
Notes: I keep writing poetry! I think it's because lately my plot ideas are less plotty than atmospheric and contemplative. Here's one suggested by smilla02, she of the awesome prompt suggestions. Thanks go to fannishliss for the beta. She is the reason the second draft is so different from the first, and in my opinion, much better. Thanks, Liss! Lastly, comments rock, even critical ones. Lastly-lastly--enjoy!
Summary: Lisa breathes and admits a visitor.
Inhale: he visits.
Count to five and he fills her
stomach. Five-count and her lungs are flush
with his presence inside her.
Another two seconds raise her
collarbone toward his tall memory.
She knew a man once, she’s sure.
He wasn’t the father of her son-
her son who sighs, discontent,
on the sidewalk, in the car, at the dinner table.
He was a good man, tall and corporeal-she knows it.
Exhale, measured, steady:
lose him on a fifteen-count.
He exits her body, withdraws
into air damp with her sweat.
From the top of her lungs to her
diaphragm, he has gone.
She knew him-or else this passion
is for nothing, for no one. It’s no brittle thing.
It is pink and flushed, tangible.
She could hold it in her hands.
Day by day it grows.
It laughs and runs.
Shallow meditation breaths. He is inside her again,
warm at her pelvis, radiating passion.
This is what she has now.
She’s not a woman to imagine ideals.
She knew a man. He was warm and
held her in bed. Or did she hold him?
Inhale: he visits to say yes, yes she held him.
She held him in her house,
in her arms, in her steady breath.
She dried his tears with her pillowcase.
Inhale: he visits, and grief, his friend,
embraces her with cold, skeletal arms
about her ribs. She releases everything
in a whuff of air. She lets him go.
Exhale four, three, two.
Her lungs are compressed,
her stomach pressed backward.
Hold. Hold.
She knew him because she’s
not a woman to grieve on a whim.
Her despondency is fertile and blue.
It flows and draws away,
approaches and leaves behind buttons and shells.
Last night, her son woke up in tears
and could not say why.
Neither can she, but someday she will.
Air is a wonder, a gift, a revival.
He visits on the inhale.
One day, he’ll stay when she lets go.