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Now I Lay Me Down
by Kristina WoodhillWhat do I say to the man
Who holds my head in his hands,
Kneads his fingers into my neck knots
Sending lightning-powered shots
Flashing way beyond the red range,
Paints and peppers my brow that strange, strange
Hue named steel-tipped arrow pain?
I'd feign
Synesthesia
If I could but find
A color kind
Enough
To ferry me through
This crackling
Hot lava
Plain 12/31/2014 Posted on 01/01/2015
Copyright © 2024 Kristina Woodhill
| Member Comments on this Poem |
| Posted by Alison McKenzie on 01/01/15 at 07:12 AM I'm going to have to ingest this a couple dozen times, I think. |
| Posted by Rhiannon Jones on 01/02/15 at 02:07 AM Just "thank you" might be appropriate. |
| Posted by Philip F De Pinto on 01/02/15 at 11:49 AM I would say, Kristina, that cobbling an ode such as this, is saying it to the man, in nuance of hues and tones and shades, more than there are on the color wheel and infinitely more vibrant and subtle. |
| Posted by Ken Harnisch on 01/02/15 at 05:41 PM One might hope such ministrations gave you relief from what I imagine was a hellacious migraine, Kristina...and if so, one never put release from the misery so colorfully! |
| Posted by Quentin S Clingerman on 01/04/15 at 01:08 AM Hmmm I could so wish for my wife working on my back once more! A bit of nostalgia here for me. |
| Posted by Chris Sorrenti on 01/06/15 at 01:16 AM Truly lovely, Kristina. Can't believe I let this one slip through my fingers for four days. Continued success with your writing in 2015! |
| Posted by George Hoerner on 01/08/15 at 02:31 PM Really well done lady! |
| Posted by Laura Doom on 01/25/15 at 10:39 AM The acceptable face of manipulation? Should I admit to taking pleasure in your pain? |
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