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She holds her hair up with only
two chopsticks and a bobby pin.
Think Atlas. Think shoulders.
When your sadness starts to feast,
she carries the light down from the
mountain and hands it to you,
tells you to set it on fire.
Think Prometheus. Think savior.
On Sunday, she steps out of the shower
and you don’t think you’ve ever seen
anything more beautiful than the way
she walks towards you with a towel
on her head, water clinging to her
like there is nowhere else it would rather be.
Think Aphrodite. Think sea foam.
You love her like mythology.
You love her like the impossible stories
of Gods and monsters.
When she sings, think fairies.
Think mermaids. Think hymns.
She is the face of the river
that Narcissus fell in love with,
confusing hers for his own.
She is Medusa’s fury,
Athena’s strength,
Achelois’ healing.
You are kissing her in a crowded
restaurant and it feels like praying.
You are watching her
instead of the meteor shower
and you don’t even notice.

~ Caitlyn Siehl from What We Buried

A Winter Dream

In winter we’ll travel in a little pink carriage
With cushions of blue.
We’ll be fine. A nest of mad kisses waits
In each corner too.

You’ll shut your eyes, not to see, through the glass,
Grimacing shadows of evening,
Those snarling monsters, a crowd going past
Of black wolves and black demons.

Then you’ll feel your cheek tickled quite hard…
A little kiss, like a maddened spider,
Will run over your neck…

And you’ll say: “Catch it!” bowing your head,
– And we’ll take our time finding that creature
– Who travels so far…

The Sun Has Wept Rose

The sun has wept rose in the shell of your ears,
The world has rolled white from your back,
Your thighs:
The sea has stained rust at the crimson of your breasts,
And Man had bled black at your sovereign side.

Nina’s Reply (Excerpt)

HE – Your breast on my breast,
Eh? We could go,
With our nostrils full of air,
Into the cool light

Of the blue good morning that bathes you
In the wine of daylight?…
When the whole shivering wood bleeds,
Dumb with love

From every branch green drops,
Pale buds,
You can feel in things unclosing
The quivering flesh:

You would bury in the lucerne
Your white gown,
Changing to rose-colour in the fresh air the blue tint which encircles
Your great black eyes,

In love with the country,
Scattering everywhere,
Like champagne bubbles,
Your crazy laughter:

Laughing at me, suddenly, drunkenly –
I should catch you
Like this – lovely hair, ah! –
I should drink in

Your taste of raspberry and strawberry,
Oh flower-flesh!
Laughing at the fresh wind kissing you
Like a thief,

At the wild rose, teasing you
Pleasantly:
Laughing more than anything, oh madcap,
At your lover!…

Seventeen! You’ll be so happy!
Oh! the big meadows
The wide loving countryside!
– Listen, come closer!…

– Your breast on my breast,
Mingling our voices,
Slowly we’d reach the stream,
Then the great woods!…

Then, like a little ghost,
Your heart fainting,
You’d tell me to carry you,
Your eyes half closed…

I’d carry your quivering body
Along the path:
The bird would sping out his andante:
Hard by the hazeltree…

I’d speak into your mouth;
And go on, pressing
Your body like a little girl’s I was putting to bed,
Drunk with the blood

That runs blue under your white skin
With its tints of rose:
And speaking to you in that frank tongue…
There!… – that you understand…

Our great woods would smell of sap,
And the sunlight
Would dust with fine gold their great
Green and bronze dream.

Musings

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