voro
cool drops the air
into an august night
after the heat has slung
hazes across heads
shucked dust around feet
in the crucible of day
press my lips against
their sweaty little skulls
i have to close my eyes because
it hurts
i cannot hold all of this at once
this fervor
i could never get my fill
with eyes, with hands
i have always fought the ache
to crush them in my arms
the desire to just eat them
in their first summer
the soft metallic taste of each
of my babies
posted by Me at 12:08 PM
1 Comments:
I enjoyed reading this poem. I like the reference to the heat that pours off a childs head. It is an experience common to anyone who has ever truly held a child.
You made a comment on a poem of mine on Haggard and Halloo recently (Post-modern Advocate at Quarantine). You asked for my name. On the site my name is Halifax (as in George Savile; a hero of mine). My flesh-bound name is T. Dane Haggard. Thank you for your comment.
Post a Comment
<< Home