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[From the Top Balcony - Elizabeth Olds]These shins I’m kicking are tree trunks,
are rock,
are warm angry flesh,
are the legs of a god.
And still my face is red.
You are my birthmother,
my breathing wind.
are rock,
are warm angry flesh,
are the legs of a god.
And still my face is red.
You are my birthmother,
my breathing wind.
I roll on my back, tuck my tail over my power,
avert my eyes
Your hearth fire calls to me in the night,
like a lover I’ve been waiting for.
And still, I do not come
3 comments:
Who is this poet?
Haven't you realized that when I don't credit something to someone else, there is no someone else to credit it to?
oh oh oh, my bad. of course. I thought it was more Arab-American poetry and it made me want to eat an orange. And rice. And read more.
I sincerely like.
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