Here are the first eight sections (subject, very much, to change, re-ordering, etc.) of a work-in-progress that I'm basing off of Adrienne Rich's "21 Love Poems" (which, if you've never read, you must -- it's phenomenal).


Late on a Sunday night, lightbulbs, window squares
flicker across the city. Lighters percuss the discordant
harmony of two burly voices in tight jeans
on the corner under the ring of the streetlamp
before they drift further down the road, hands linked.
They do not walk the same way we do: they lilt, glide;
we stumble, step. i hesitate to say we because you disconnect
my graceful curve from yours, claiming all that is soft and blushing
and feminine in your arms, leaving me with grey stones like
me that you don’t understand. i dream of trees raising
their arms as the earth inhales my heels; You are sitting
at the mahogany kitchen table, home in your concrete jungle,
weaving tomorrow's lunchtime conversation out of the front page
of the Corvallis Gazette Times. i detach myself from your stories,
releasing breaths like finches from my hands.

*

Sun yawns, stretching )

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unearthingbone

February 2012

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