The Woman At The Well

He saw six men in my eyes.

Yes, I had lain and loved.

Perhaps that's why I wasn't the kind

to deny a dusty tongue

a share of the sweetness sung

from the bottom of the well.

And, he could tell.  

He spoke of quenching thirst.

He never mentioned shame or sin

or treated as a curse

the tender heart that I'd held open

for so many - now, including him -

willingly.

Love or living water; I was practiced at belief.

A work in progress for Fireblossom Friday at Real Toads.

The Primitive

She paced herself alive
out of the painting;
naked breasts
thick oiled

and blue veined.
I tried
to anchor my eye
to an abstract,

but mere shapes
and shades
couldn't contain her
milk heavy weight.

Drowning,
I had to bare
my meat teeth
and bite.

Trading

I'd be willing to trade a piece of myself
to be graceful -a gazelle girl - the kind of girl

who makes it home from the store
with the eggs unbroken and her hair in place.

You know, one of those girls with kissing
fresh breath even after an onion burger laced with garlic.

I'd trade another piece of me to stop
dreaming of tests I haven't prepared for . . .

in courses I haven't taken . . .
in languages I don't speak.

Or, at least to start dreaming
of passing and being fully clothed.

And, I'd trade a piece (not a big piece, just a sliver)
for an easy, photogenic smile

instead of the high, hard stick-up-the-ass expression
I've worn in every family album mugshot since junior high

gazelle girls snarked all over my crooked teeth.
It was fourth period Spanish, just before a test.  I can still smell the Dentyne.

Some of the Sunday Whirl words for Open Link Night at dVerse

My Best Work

I do my best work
by darklight;
in the albumen of an egg;
in crystal shatter silence;
without the company of conscience.

For Open Link Monday at Real Toads

Winter Of '76

Photo by Margaret Bednar

It was a night in late December
when the ice had hold of the river
and every shiver of wind broke trees
like alabaster bones

that a gypsy braved the briar
to reach my hearth, my fire;
and I could not deny her
refuge in my home.

Over coffee, she gave voice
to indigo and noise;
with luck, she and the boys
would set the Hessian on his ear.

Then we let silence find us,
and all that's endless bind us;
closed the door behind us -
Georgie Washington slept here.

For Margaret's prompt at Real Toads (I used the word list).  Also submitted to Poetry Pantry.