Tuesday, November 17, 2009

What You Told Me You Needed

The skin on your wrist,
translucent as onion peel,
the blue tinge of skim milk

I recall the apricot blush that would
mottle your cheeks- natural rouge painted
on by Tuesday nights spent not watching movies

Instead counting breaths- the rise and
fall of seconds sliding away
like grains of sand.

The gritty sweet feel of your tongue on my lips that
would make me frantically recite elements in the periodic table
dead presidents- the multiplication tables

Tiny rivulets carving grooves in the velour
of your cheeks, brought on by
missed conceptions and over a
house that was becoming cluttered with purple elephants

The day we tore down the wall paper, a massacre
of steamrolled baby ducks coated the hall carpet
to a background of slamming doors and expresso makers

Spider-spun tangle of indigo veins, living in your eye-lids,
mirrored in the bruise of your fingernails
I turn off the faucet as roses bloom

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