Mother
I kissed the hem of your bell-bottom jeans.
Would your tongue be rough against my cheek?
My bones? My skin so thin I shiver,
long for arms in a dish-soap-scented lullaby
to blindfold my own breasts, mapped with violet-
silver whispers of an ancient legacy.
There was a promise in those days
of hands clasped and woven clover crowns
and snow ice cream that melts
like so many intentions in a mouth too bold.
Therefore, should you part lips,
I imagine vanilla crystals still making
castles in your mouth.
Because, in truth, you always were so timid,
even with belly bared and mood rings
and your face a naked paraphernalia
of your times; all this an un-interpretable
language I never grasped until now,
with my own echoes grasping at my toes.
Yellow shimmers don't bequeath all truths,
you are still the shining wonder
peering from watercolor eyes,
like the ones I always wanted for my own.
Nowadays I look for your song in the dark,
or just your cool hand against my face.
ADE 9/9/05
© Copyright 2005
Would your tongue be rough against my cheek?
My bones? My skin so thin I shiver,
long for arms in a dish-soap-scented lullaby
to blindfold my own breasts, mapped with violet-
silver whispers of an ancient legacy.
There was a promise in those days
of hands clasped and woven clover crowns
and snow ice cream that melts
like so many intentions in a mouth too bold.
Therefore, should you part lips,
I imagine vanilla crystals still making
castles in your mouth.
Because, in truth, you always were so timid,
even with belly bared and mood rings
and your face a naked paraphernalia
of your times; all this an un-interpretable
language I never grasped until now,
with my own echoes grasping at my toes.
Yellow shimmers don't bequeath all truths,
you are still the shining wonder
peering from watercolor eyes,
like the ones I always wanted for my own.
Nowadays I look for your song in the dark,
or just your cool hand against my face.
ADE 9/9/05
© Copyright 2005