i can't stop trailing
my Seattle-raped irises
over your hiking shoes.

We're in public in a pool hall
in Oklahoma City when we discovered each other
at the same time;
nearly 30 days have passed since I laid claim
on your sullen-hazel disposition.
And began to court you
into the ether of romance's hope.
And I am draped at your feet poised up
against rail golden.
The rest of the bar would pulse,
but only you would emerge.

before drugs found me.
before my family began to perish,
one by one to the grave.
before the adult adulation ache
of a youth misspent longing.
before my divorce -
and the car-wreck that turned my leg metal -
& tainted, enveloped, the smooth memory
of my grandmother's rose bushes.

I used to lay on the Earth, pen in hand,
and feel Her body press anti-gravity-
upward into my skin,
writing, innocent,
always outside,
clumsily hiking,
a servant to the Sun.
my perfect feet insecure but writhing,
in hiking boots of my own.

(later?
in the dark of my hotel room.
i would old-mouth divulge this to you while detoxing -
my body always so cold; but finally healing.
your lips would part, opening the ever-dripping
chalice of your words spilling despondent -
"they're just shoes," you said.)

Not to me, baby.
Not to me.

05/06/2011

Author's Note: it's good to be back.

Posted on 05/06/2011
Copyright © 2024 Michelle Floyd