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by Johanna May

A single misplaced eye
caught—from beneath aubergine
towels—previously obscured
by efficient indifference,
in misty expedition,
like sunk plump islands,
my curves
have no vernal flatness left,
what I have, before me, is ripened,
rosy eyes in gaussian globes
defiant, out-staring my girl eyes
with its lashless woman glower,
the bowl of the womb that sits
upon a lichen secret, revealed
by an indulgent knee: a dark red
my body is ready for love

yet my mind can’t catch up.


Posted on 01/06/2013
Copyright © 2024 Johanna May

Member Comments on this Poem
Posted by George Hoerner on 01/06/13 at 11:41 PM

Is this not the issue with both the young and the old who think they are mature. Far too many seem ready for 'it' but not the potential issues. So many see little responsibility in 'it'. 'It' is great at times without the responsibilities but who knows when there will be more than expected?

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