in which Amy writes a new poem, finally.

[myselftheliar]

'Neath Green Canopies
for apiphile

You and I lie in the soft loam of late spring
fingers intertwined and eyes to the sky
watching the last drip drops off the trees
from a passing mid-day thunderstorm.
The air is thick like a soup your mother made
when you were very little
that sticks to your ribs and the back of your throat
hugging you from the inside with its gooey warmth.
We watch the wetted sky with damp eyes
knowing that between us and the thick air
are the little words
that neither of us has the breath to bear
to speak monstrosities aloud.
There are pieces of you that have been removed
taken away in remembrance of things
too harsh to have been anything but cut out
like paper dolls all holding hands
blank faces on blank paper.
Were but I a scissors or a knife
I'd take out the part of you that feels like a fat worm
wriggling beneath your skin
snip out this unwelcome visitor
and leave you as unblemished as I could.
The best I can be is a hacksaw, but with every grinding stroke
I will be closer to the bits
that keep you alive.