Tuesday, September 1, 2009

Mess? I? Ah.

Nothing about this hangs together yet, I'm still stretching for it instead of writing from within it. Damn you, WordsWorth, for making me think about process!! *shakes fist*

It will come.

I was a free woman when I walked in this place,
Worshipping only my independent will,
A woman of means, never mind how I got it,
Serving my own sweet whims, subject
To no man’s demands.

I entered as he was telling some tale,
Bullshit about water turning to whiskey, and
How women followed him, seeking his touch
To heal their ailing hearts. Libidos, I snorted,
Sailing past, still thinking I belonged to

At the table, a friend introduced us.
I am not sure whether it started
When he first touched my hand or
When I looked up and got lost in his eyes, but
Suddenly broadsided by tenderness and
Unable to swallow for wanting to touch
His lips, I was lost.

The stories he tells, son of a god
Are they real? Is that his magic? I don’t
Know if he can raise the dead, except when
His amp is too loud, but he can perform miracles.
Why else do I find myself washing his feet
With my hair?

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