Poetry, Words
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vestigial habit

you coax my thumb in bone like vestigial
habit is a word for the lie your history
book forgot to tell you. like hand over thumb is
physical meditation: tan oat tan oat tan
oat tan oat, a skipped needle asking:
do you? do you remember the first night?
me a recruited athlete in the sweatshirt
and my legs? and the similar shape of
our wants?

rome is dead. do you remember the
funeral? and that brows exist among the
ruins? that you taught me to steal? like beauty
is the last soup dumpling in the fridge and you
took it. like you made your face sucking
on the peppermint stick of a pillar and
massachusetts had a vacation in the jarbled
blood-laurel and elder of
your mouth.

do you? do you, do you remember
the egg nog? spiked so beautiful? or the
shape of starving? how you funded my folly?
three drinks a day for a raisinnut blister
raised in your name? the clover at your temples?
when the sky was a marble slab set white
and cold? how in fleeced oat I kneaded a pattern
contingent to the sound: I love you like it’s all
going to shit we’re going to shit all of us.

hand over thumb is physical meditation: tan
oat tan oat tan oat tan oat, saying don’t cry
because we’re going. now is a quarry from
which to sculpt one’s image and: at alexandria
they didn’t crush the pillars though like white
chocolate they would have crumbled.
humanity has a mauve spot for keeping
beauty. maybe it’s a bruise that yields
to press: mochi: pink japanese ice cream.

do you? do you, do you remember
the egg nog? spiked so beautiful? maybe
we’re nothing or maybe we’ve made
something for keeps. maybe marble is
veined because there’s life inside it
throbbing. isn’t that nice to think? That
long after the taste of christmas has departed
our mouths your thumb over mine, that little
triangle, might be a new pieta?

Photo from: casaacorte.com

 

 

 

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