Pygmalion

by Poetry

there are those, I discovered late, who were not born
loathing their bodies
whose faces grew from their souls, & were not stamped
upon a skull with little care
whose arms & legs grew evenly, & filled out
to shape the natural Adonii
who could smile a perfect smile, & had never struggled
to practice their expressions
in river water

after you, we signed an accord – no more loathing; we work
with what we have
as I would prefer a finer skeleton, with nobler
flesh, so too
does my meat desire a cleaner mind; a more honest
& open heart
& neither bone nor soul dares to dream
of what could have been
had grace been aware of our birth

now, we tear the contract, & cast our duties aside & know
something like forgiveness;
my arms knew peace after you stepped into them, as I
forgave my fingers their crooked grasp
I forgave my smile for its failures, as my lips
came to know yours
& even the shrivelled jaw & receded chin know peace
when they come to nestle between your thighs
where a stronger jaw
might not have reached

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Kingfisher II

to feathers & silent songs I go – still
trapped in the prosaic silence & no wings
can lift a pen so heavy with ink enough
to sculpt you from the page & no voice breaks
through a beak bound so long
to sing your praises

Night Terrors

When Nox and I go panting beneath, we
have asked the same black questions;

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