“She Who Waits”

My supper is cooling on the ledge of her chin.
I knew she laid waiting.
That is why I rushed to begin.
Sketching her body with my words spoken through your breath;
Each bone rung like a xylophone struck inside the liberty bell.

She knew me through letters and stuffed her mattress with some.
She yearned for my substance to go beyond a theoretical one.

I dreamt that her body was a cello constructed in France.
My voice traveled from her fingerboard to balance our weight on the floor.
She dreamt I wrote my poetry naked on a rooftop in Spain
and I tossed my rejection letters to the women holding mass in the street.

My patience is dying for fulfilling this lust.
I poured myself over the brim of her cup.
She breast fed depression and straightened the curls of my hair.
She lulled me to sleep in my own rocking chair.

My breakfast is warm in the cave of her lips.
I know she has waited,
so I permit her one kiss.

narrative poem written on 10-19-2009 by: on mattkane.com
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