by Aaron Blair

I want to be a fisherman's wife,
wear a necklace fashioned from hooks.
I'll wait at the door, arms akimbo, hip cocked,
knowing your smell, thick and damp
and sliding down my throat like a worm.
There's honor in industry, in dirty hands.
We'll be flesh sprung from earth,
stiill blackened, still gritty to the touch.
Our nights we'll spend rutting like pigs.
We can share a love that never
stops to think too highly of itself.


Posted on 07/26/2005
Copyright © 2024 Aaron Blair

Member Comments on this Poem
Posted by Corey Lockaby on 07/27/05 at 04:15 AM

I enjoyed this as well. It persuades you to a new perspective in a way that's quite aesthetically pleasing.

Posted by Christina Gleason on 07/27/05 at 12:25 PM

Rutting like pigs never sounded so good.

Posted by Melanie J Yarbrough on 07/29/05 at 07:21 PM

there's absolutely nothing wrong with manual labor- keeps us grounded. :) I like this

Posted by Nadia Gilbert Kent on 08/01/05 at 10:37 PM

I like the image of a necklace made of hooks against sea clouds a lot. This reminds me of Emiliana Torrini's most recent album... but that's probably because of the title track being so similar to what you describe here. Um, as for the poem - I'm left feeling that there's more to know, in this.

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