Wednesday, September 14, 2011
I was good at questions
which filled up space and softened
the angles of our elbows and
twisted us by tangled spines
while my cherry lips were scalded by
those angry little vowels
that banged and bruised my tired mouth
until you strung them out like beads.
And I wrote your words in the margins
of my cracking family bible
they made a mess of Psalms
as the wet ink dripped and danced,
black and white and blue.
For we always knew it was much more crime scene than mystery
and much less mystery
than the thriller novels we browsed in the closing bookstore
and the romance novels
we laughed at.