Monday, October 10, 2011

Echoing Unwords

The blue sky and the moist turf on our back conspired to make this an especially soft day for us.
Even our echoing unwords shimmer in harmony on the dappled skins of ancient trees.
But, my love, I will answer you not in the way you want me to, or because you want me to.
Yesterday, as we were lying here watching clouds, you asked me again, and from out of the many heavenly things passing us by, I took to the one that looked like a wing, no, a harp – but then you asked again and again until it grew dark.
My love, I confess to feigning it all this time, yes, not because you say my snoring is the only night music you could sleep to but because I want you to sleep ahead so I can watch you lying in bed - naked, lost, unquestioning like a child.
A muggy wind blows and your downy cheeks blush. 
Then I touch you. 
Then I breathe you…
But, ask me again, now, my love, so I will remember how a gentle doubt can sometimes smother the memory of memories, now softly fading out to the darkening side of this our favorite meadow.

© 2011 Emeniano Acain Somoza, Jr., Co-editor, Spiracle 


Wrexie said...

The slightest touch of memory and regret -- a flawed, gorgeous and doomed pairing -- here conspires to a small, perfect beauty that brushes all the senses, one by one, and leaves at least this reader wondering where in the lushness the poem resides: dream, wish, or the deep comfort of memory?

Anonymous said...

The way the Garden of Eden might have played out.

Barbara said...

Creates a private dream-like world. The beauty lies in the poet's skill at playing peek-a-boo -- sharing just enough to keep the reader breathlessly engaged.

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