Wednesday, September 04, 2013

Poetry

Fairy wings flicker on a slanted wall, a truth in trust divulged;
You a story telling herself into my life, shaping all this into ours.
I said it well, because it was true; I still do not know my truth.
But yours is the capricious truth, the truth that cannot be contained,
The woman-truth, a goatish truth, a truth all of its own.
I could never force the truth from you, for you fly away with wings
We boys have never wielded well.
I could only ever watch you tell me what you saw and thought and felt,
You whose eyes and nose cross the distance of flesh and find the logic
I needed to hear what your caprice dances around, the subtle bedrock
Upon which your feet push to soar and your knees grace to serve.

I could never control you, for you are too wild and too child in your wisdom.
But you radically serve me, and in this I know it's all your choice.
It was your choice to caress me. It was your choice to cut me. It was your choice to fuck me.
It was your choice to love me.
But you say it was never your choice, from the moment you stopped and shook,
to that last tickle of hair on my face as you kissed me away a good day,
to the sharings that continue ahead and behind and from the side.

You are a smiling night in the middle of the day, a clouded overcast when I am trenching,
A wandering moon between branches, a fire shared in breath given mouth to mouth,
A damp spot on crumpled sheets reminding me of shuddering thunder beneath my body.

Yet, in all of it, you are wild, you are child, you are faerie, you are you.
Ordinary in your magic, older than the cultural sign of the new,
You are my daily.

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Is this wise?
Is this yours?
Is this love?

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