Intimacy
Posted by Alysia Harris | Filed under Poetry, Print
When the Thunder does not tame
the Tender– that is the measure of mercy.
The fold of a Great God
becoming turtle-dove whisper on ear’s curl.
Dare I cup him to myself
as he has cupped me.
Breath against these dirt fickle lips.
Laying down with night,
my side has been a salted field.
No warmth of struggling spring felt inside my flesh.
I wailed at stones and knew my body
as a ghost knows its graveyard
crowded with longing.
And there amongst the ribs
bent to shepherd’s rods, He planted
a horde of romance roses.
Candles of red perfume.
He spread a feast on my bed
and honeyed my sorrow.
If I loved Him at all,
I would become like the stalks of wheat
braided by His drafts.
Like an obsessing cymbal
whose echoes cannot forget His name.
My devotion ripples and waves.
I wait to become clear.
Who am I that He loves me?
Should a seamstress protect a stain?
Tell the Lord, I no longer hide in shadows
for fear He would overwhelm me.
Fall upon my face.
So I may worship
with evergreen faith
the noon of Your beauty.
no, not right now.
Posted by Marion Smallwood | Filed under Poetry, Print
i was only watching the curtains burn,
only following the ants under the magnifying glass.
i was only using my skin like tree shade,
only slow dancing from my eyes,
i was staring at the sidewalk wondering what it’s like to fry.
i only wanted to hang over the window,
to tell the morning, no, not right now…
to feel the grip of your hands pull me hard to both sides,
unbutton my blouse, pull it hard to both sides.
i was just waiting for the floor to soften
like cake guts, like a handful of someone else’s hair,
like hot rain on a spiral notebook.
i was loosening the floorboards,
i was reading through the walls,
i was only watching the window fog,
only writing your name backwards,
only waiting for the glass to stop breathing.
don’t tell me what it’s like to have ash in your hair,
to dream debris or to rebel in rubble.
don’t tell me something that won’t still be true after you say it.
that book died of a lit match
and i still got the rest of the pack
so we don’t speak anymore.
you were only setting the curtains on fire,
only praying on a magnifying glass.
