Thursday, September 13, 2012

My Religious Poem (2)


He is twelve.

His mother tells him turn off Doctor Who and

wash your hands for tea.

In the bathroom he steams.

He carries the fog on his brow to the table,

a storm cloud chewing lighting bolts silent in his distance.

Ten minutes later, he is chatting like

cockatoos after rain.

He still has trouble holding onto clouds.


Café gig cross-legged on the floor

Light like sun through skin

Hot towel music; mulled wine music

The singer is a fireplace

We pendulum to snake charmer flames

We hum like plucked strings

Tones holding us like mothers’ arms.

I tuck in my head, and pull 
you in
to me.

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