She used to crawl into my little
bed, so low to the ground, as though
gravity had drawn her there
from her high loft. She’d lick
the back of my neck and try
to hold me sweetly. I told her
she was beautiful, but not my type:
Too much product, too thin, too too too.
I told her I loved her as I pushed
her hands away, as I drew love
from another woman. Then
it felt necessary, then it was real,
but now I can see, she was
only a victim of her need for gravity.
3 Comments
January 16, 2007 at 11:50 pm
Thanks for stopping by my blog earlier today and your kind comment. I had to do a little sleuthing to find your blog but figured it out on Poetry Thursday. Great last line of your poem, “only a victim of her need for gravity.” Love it.
January 17, 2007 at 5:29 pm
Thank you. I really enjoyed visiting your poetry and thoughts. I reccommend that anyone who reads this regularly visits Emily, too.
January 18, 2007 at 8:19 pm
This brought a flood of thoughts into my head. You’ve said so much, so briefly and so well.