The Proclamation

She took her clothes
off to stand in the
rain.
Stand in the middle
of everything with
nothing on.

Sharpened pencil and paper
i n hand,
she waited for them to come-

her immortal words.

 

“What is it You do, again?”

they asked.
And I immediately
ran to the bathroom mirror.
Looking back at me :
a spot of imperfection
among the designs
of Divinity.

Without employment we
are nothing;
Human statistics waiting
to be resuscitated.

In Absentia

You do not speak
a word,
but I understand.
You will not call
today,
yet your voice finds me.
You will not brush
up against me,
but I feel you
as I am drifting off.
You do not breathe
with me,
yet your scent filters
my air.

You are not here,
but your taste lingers
on my breath.

SHE

On any given night
you can hear
their idle words.
Trace the lines of their
gestures with a fine
point
until you're that close
to the same question
they ask time after
time:

What is "he" doing with "her"?

And every time
I am tempted to interrupt
and tell them that
if you would just ask him
he would tell you.

About the way she
touches her hair
just so,
with eyes that pierce
his soul.
About the way her jeans
hug the hips
that,
eyes closed,
slide him through
melting waters
and roaring sunsets.

Ask him and
he would tell you.
About the music
that surrounds her
as she brushes
his cheek,
her scent streaming
into him.
About how he looks
at her,
loving her because
she doesn't know
how his heart starts to race
even now,
after so long,
when she wears that red dress
that makes him
want her
over and over
again.

She whispers toward a place
only they know.
Ask him.
He will tell you.