Jagged haze

enfolds

twisting up in mass of edges

It breathes anew

ready

for life bold

the light rests.

Paula Antonello Moore, Poetry. Copyright: Monday, April 25, 2016

Image: Green shoot by Me.

When the rain pours in torrents,

And thunder chases lightning through the trees,

When running feet pound the rain-slick road,

And the frightened bark of the fox tears the night,

When wet gravel squeals and squeaks beneath heavy tread,

And boots clump through muddy pools,

When doors slam, and children cry into damp pillows,

I remember your face, moon-pale,

Bland as a salt pan,

And loveless as the chill mists of autumn.

I remember the thin black line of a mouth that never spoke,

Tight closed, a crack in a mud-parched riverbed.

I remember dark eyes, slipping and sliding,

That couldn’t see to tell the truth,

The tangling words and lies and flying hands.

I remember the weeping and wailing and the sharpening of teeth,

The night you went away.

I do not know

what you truly think

of me

or of all my dead lovers.

Once they kissed my skin

wrapped me up in denim

cheap corner motels

backseat heaven

kissed them in closets

on gurnies, trust me

you would not care

how I wore my black phase

through my blue one,

how my breasts and legs

led me through lines

free cocktails, drugs,

rides, vip sections,

limos, rock stars.

He said “you are art”

and never read my verse,

but he lived in some kind

of utopia

and locked me out.

I wandered up and down Brooklyn

Bridge, examining initials.

In and out of phone booths

with quarters in my pocket

and collect calls on my mind.

“You are my art” he explained

but I never wanted my dark hair

spread on his sofa

so he could paint me

in various naked poses,

“no,” I said,

“I like…