SONNET: Persimmons

this is not one of those evenings where my fingers picked your breasts
like persimmons, where my hips stampeded over your fortunes
and i stumbled upon your vials of womanhood in a toosmall bed:
this is where the crispness of perfection stood while it crumbled
at bay from your hips and where your skin sagged and molded itself
around my hands—where you stretched out your neck and told me
to dig my nails deeper and deeper into it; to pound the flesh
above your thigh; to make your wails echo off the white plaster wall.
this is where our breath was thick and panting while my legs
stood perfectly still; stood while you arched your back and slid down
past my knees and onto my roots where you drank the liquid
that i stored for a drought of such: we forgot our raincoats
but the water soothed us just right and the storm was no concern.

this is not one of those evenings: all of them died with the persimmons in summertime.

No comments:

Post a Comment